01  H!  ;:    P.O.   MS 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


SOMETIME  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 

MAY  RILEY  SMITH 


NEW  YORK 
E.  P.  DUTTON   AND   COMPANY 

3  I   WEST  TWENTY-THIRD  STREET 
I897 


Copyright,  189S, 
BY  ANSON  D.  F.  RANDOLPH  &  COMPANY 

(INCORPORATED). 


Press  of  J.  J.  Little  &  Co. 
Astor  Place,  New  York 


7>5 


"IS 


To  him  whose  praises  make  my  heart  more  -vain 

Than  any  recompense  my  life  can  know, 
Whose  patient  bands,  through  every  doubt  and  pain, 

Make  easy  places  where  my  feet  may  go;  - 
And  to  the  child,  whose  life  has  been  to  me 

The  sweetest  flower  my  bosom  ever  wore , 
IVbose  little  elbow  leans  upon  my  knee, — 

The  lightest  burden  mother  ever  bore!  — 
To  these,  the  sharers  of  my  household  throne, 

IVbose  names  within  my  prayers  together  stand, 
I  dedicate  what  always  is  their  own, — 

The  pleasant  labor  of  my  unskilled  hand. 


626172 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

SOMETIME n 

YE  HAVE  DONE  IT  UNTO  ME 15 

WHEN  WE  PRAY 20 

CROSS-PURPOSES 22 

MY  UNINVITED  GUEST 25 

His  NAME 29 

IF  THIS  WERE  TWENTY  CENTURIES  AGO  .    .  32 

THE  SLIGHTED  FLOWERS 35 

MARY  WAKEFIELD 37 

THE  WEARY  MODEL 44 

PARTING  COMRADES 49 

UNSEEN  GUESTS 51 

THREESCORE  AND  TEN 55 

A  MARCH  WEDDING 58 

A  GIFT  OF  GENTIANS 60 

His  BIRTHDAY 62 

COMING  HOME 65 

A  THANKSGIVING  PRAYER 68 

THE  INN  OF  REST 71 

A  STRADIVARIUS  VIOLIN 74 


8  Contents. 

PAGE 

AN  OCTOBER  BANQUET 76 

TRUST 77 

THE  PERFECT  NICHE 79 

CHRIST  HAS  RISEN 82 

BEHOLD,  I  STAND  AT  THE  DOOR    ....  84 

.  DEAD  BIRDS  AND  EASTER 86 

PURPLE  ASTER 91 

AURORA  BOREALIS 92 

MEXICO 94 

WEAKNESS 96 

SOME  VIOLETS 98 

WE  ARE  UNFAITHFUL 100 

THE  BURIAL  OF  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN  .    .    .  102 

CRITICISM 105 

WHITE  VIOLETS 108 

IN  PRISON in 

OBSCURITY 115 

A  FLOWER  SERMON 117 

THE  NEW  MESSAGE 119 

CHRISTMAS  ROSES 123 

AVERAGE  PEOPLE    125 

MARCH 127 

DISPROVED 130 

SAILING  AWAY 132 

IF  I  COULD  CHOOSE 134 

GOOD-BY 137 

MY  CUP  RUNNETH  OVER 139 


Contents.  9 

PAGE 

IN  EXTREMIS 141 

MELANCHOLY  DAYS 143 

SNOW  FLAKES 145 

THE  RAIN 147 

A  POMPEIAN  PREACHER 149 

EXPIATION 152 

WHAT  WILL  IT  MATTER? 156 

YOUR  BIRTHDAY 158 

EASTER  DAY 163 

O  BELLS  IN  THE  STEEPLE .  165 

IN  SILENCE     .    „    .    ,  168 


SOMETIME. 

OMETIME,  when  all  life's  les 
sons  have  been  learned, 
And    sun    and   stars    forever- 
more  have  set, 
The  things  which  our  weak  judgments 

here  have  spurned, 
The  things  o'er  which  we  grieved  with 

lashes  wet, 
Will  flash  before  us  out  of  life's  dark 

night, 
As  stars  shine  most  in  deeper  tints  of 

blue; 
And  we  shall  see  how  all  God's  plans 

are  right, 

And  how  what  seemed  reproof  was 
love  most  true. 


1 2  Sometime. 

And  we  shall  see  how,  while  we  frown 

and  sigh, 
God's  plans  go  on  as  best  for  you 

and  me,  — 
How,  when  we   called,  he  needed  not 

our  cry, 
Because  his  wisdom  to  the  end  could 

see. 
And  even  as  wise  parents  disallow 

Too  much  of  sweet  to  craving  baby 
hood,  — 
So  God,  perhaps,  is  keeping  from    us 

now 

Life's  sweetest  things,  because  it  seem- 
eth  good. 

And   if    sometimes,   commingled    with 

life's  wine, 
We  find  the  wormwood,  and  rebel  and 

shrink, 

Be  sure  a  wiser  hand  than  yours  or  mine 
Pours  out  this  potion  for  our  lips  to 
drink. 


Sometime.  13 

And  if  some  friend  you  love  is  lying 

low, 
Where  human  kisses  cannot  reach  his 

face, 

Oh,  do  not  blame  the  loving  Father  so, 
But  wear  your  sorrow  with  obedient 
grace ! 

And  you  shall  shortly  know  that  length 
ened  breath 
Is  not  the  sweetest  gift  God  sends  his 

friend ; 
And  that  sometimes  the  sable  pall  of 

death 
Conceals   the   fairest   boon   his   love 

can  send. 

If  we  could  push  ajar  the  gates  of  life, 
And  stand  within  and  all  God's  work 
ings  see, 
We  could  interpret  all  this  doubt  and 

strife, 

And  for  each  mystery  could  find  a 
key  ! 


14  Sometime. 

But  not  to-day.     Then  be  content,  poor 

heart ! 
God's  plans,  like  lilies  pure  and  white, 

unfold ; 
We  must  not  tear  the  close-shut  leaves 

apart,  — 

Time  will  reveal  the  chalices  of  gold. 
And  if,  through  patient  toil,  we  reach 

the  land 
Where  tired  feet,  with  sandals  loosed, 

may  rest, 

When  we  shall  clearly  see  and  under 
stand, 

I  think  that  we  will  say,  "  God  knew 
the  best !  " 


"YE  HAVE   DONE  IT  UNTO  ME." 

REMBLING   she  stood  at  the 

heavenly  door,  — 
The    world    around    her  was 

strange  and  new; 
She  had  come  through  the  dark  from 

the  earthly  shore, 
And  how  should  a  pilgrim  know  what 

to  do, — 

Whether  to  knock,  or  whether  to  wait, 
When  she  finds  herself  at  the  shining 
Gate? 

"Thou    hast    crossed    the   Valley,"  an 

angel  said, 

Touching    the    pilgrim's     dampened 
hair,  — 


1 6        "Ye  have  done  it  unto  Me." 

"The    lonely    valley    which    travellers 

dread, 
As  hither  they  wend  from  the  land 

of  Care. 
Wouldst  thou    greet   the   King?     Dost 

wear  his  sign? 

Hast  thou  steadfast   held   to  thy  faith 
and  shrine?  " 

"  It  is  many  a  year,"  the  pilgrim  sighed, 
"  Since    I   have   thought    upon    faith 

and  creed; 
The  burdened  and  poor  at  my  threshold 

cried  ; 

Had  I  time  to  study  my  lesser  need? 
And  when   I  would   pray  for  my  own 

soul's  good, 
They  interrupted  with  cries  for  food. 

"  I  should  lift  my  head  from  the  Father's 

breast, 

If  I  were  in  heaven,  and  heard  their 
cry; 


"  Ye  have  done  it  unto  Me."        17 

How  could  I  selfishly  take  my  rest, 
Thinking  of  wearier  ones  than  I? 
I   would   slip   from   the    ranks   of    the 

undefiled 
To  comfort  the  woes  of  a  little  child !  " 

"  Peace !    Has  the  Father  forsaken  his 

throne?" 

The  angel   answered  with  stern  sur 
prise. 

"  Has   his   arm    grown   short,   that   he 

needs  thy  own, — 

Have  the  woes  of  the  world  escaped 
his  eyes? 

But   see !     the    Master    himself    draws 
near,  — 

Thy  foolish  story  hath  reached  his  ear." 

The  woman  lifted  her  troubled  brow, 
And  the   mists    of    earth   from    her 

spirit  fell ; 
No    stranger's   face    did   she    gaze  on 

now,  — 


i8        "  Ye  have  done  it  unto  Me." 

She  knew  the  Christ;   she  had  loved 

Him  well ; 
She   had   met  those    eyes,   with   their 

tender  grace, 
On  the  earth  in  many  a  suffering  face ! 

They  had  often  looked  from  a  beggar's 

hood, 

From  under  a  motherless  baby's  hair ; 
They  had  pierced  her  often,  reproached 

her,  wooed,  — 
Had  beckoned  her  here,  had  followed 

her  there ; 

In  many  and  many  a  strange  disguise 
She  had  met  the  gaze  of  those  pleading 

eyes! 

His  voice  was  sweet  to  the  tired  one  ; 
His  touch  was  balm  to  her  down-bent 

head, — 
"What  thou  to  the  least  of  my  poor 

hast  done, 


"  Ye  have  done  it  unto  Me."        19 

Thou  hast  done  unto  me,"  he  gently 

said. 
"  In  my  Father's  house  there  are  many 

rooms ; " 
And   He   led   her  in  from   the   earthly 

glooms. 


WHEN   WE  PRAY. 

S  tired   children  go   at  candle 
light,— 
The  glow  in  their  young  eyes 

quenched  with  the  sun, 
Almost  too  languid,  now  that  play  is 

done, 
To  seek  their   father's   knee,  and   say 

"  good-night,"  — 

So,  to  our  greater  Father  out  of  sight, 
When  the  brief  gamut  of  the  day  is 

run, 
Defeats  endured,  and  petty  triumphs 

won, 
We  kneel  and  listlessly  his  care  invite. 


Wben  we  Pray.  21 

Then,  with  no  sense  of  gain,  — JIG  ten 
der  thrill, 

As  when  we  leave  the  presence  of  a 
friend ; 

No   lingering   content   our   souls    to 

steep,  — 
But  reckoning  our  gains  and  losses  still, 

We  turn  the  leaf  upon  the  dull  day's 
end, 

And,  oarless,  drift  out  to  the  sea  of 
sleep. 


CROSS-PURPOSES. 

HAT  sorrow  we  should  beckon 

unawares, 
What  stinging  nettles  in   our 

path  would  grow, 

If  God  should  answer  all  our  thought 
less  prayers, 

Or  bring  to  harvest  the  poor  seed  we 
sow! 

The  storm  for  which  you  prayed,  whose 

kindly  shock 
Revived  your  fields  and  blessed  the 

fainting  air, 
Drove  a   strong   ship    upon   the    cruel 

rock, 

And  one  I  loved  went  down  in  ship 
wreck  there. 


Cross-purposes.  23 

I  ask  for  sunshine  on  my  grapes  to-day ; 
You    plead    for    rain    to    kiss    your 

drooping  flowers; 
And  thus  within  God's  patient  hand  we 

lay 
These  intricate  cross-purposes  of  ours. 

I  greeted  with  cold  grace  and  doubting 

fears 
The  guest  who  proved  an  angel  at  my 

side; 
And  I  have  shed  more  bitter,  burning 

tears 
Because  of  hopes  fulfilled  than  prayers 

denied. 

Then  be  not  clamorous,  O  restless  soul, 
But  hold  thy  trust  in  God's  eternal 

plan; 
He  views  our  life's  dull  weaving  as  a 

whole,  — 

Only  its  tangled  threads  are  seen  by 
man! 


24  Cross-purposes. 

Dear  Lord,  vain  repetitions  are  not  meet 
When  we  would  bring  our  messages 

to  thee; 
Help  us  to  lay  them,  then,  at  thy  dear 

feet 
In  acquiescence,  not  garrulity. 


MY  UNINVITED   GUEST. 


NE    day  there   entered   at   my 

chamber  door 

A  presence  whose  light  foot 
fall  on  the  floor 

No  token  gave ;    and,  ere  I  could  with 
stand, 

Within  her  clasp  she  drew  my  trembling 
hand. 

"  Intrusive  guest,"  I  cried,  "  my  palm  I 

lend 
But    to    the    gracious    pressure    of    a 

friend ! 
Why   comest    thou,    unbidden    and   in 

gloom, 
Trailing  thy  cold  gray  garments  in  my 

room? 


26  My  Uninvited  Guest. 

"  I  know  thee,  Pain  !  Thou  art  the  sul 
len  foe 

Of  every  sweet  enjoyment  here  below; 

Thou  art  the  comrade  and  ally  of  Death,' 

And  timid  mortals  shrink  from  thy  cold 
breath. 

"  No  fragrant  balms  grow  in  thy  garden 

beds, 
Nor    slumbrous    poppies    droop    their 

crimson  heads ; 
And  well  I  know  thou  comest  to  me 

now 
To  bind  thy  burning  chains  upon  my 

brow !  " 

And  though  my  puny  will  stood 
straightly  up, 

From  that  day  forth  I  drank  her  pun 
gent  cup, 

And  ate  her  bitter  bread,  —  with  leaves 
of  rue, 

Which  in  her  sunless  gardens  rankly 
grew. 


My  Uninvited  Guest.  27 

And  now,   so  long   it  is,  I  scarce   can 

tell 
When  Pain  within  my  chamber  came  to 

dwell ; 
And  though  she  is  not  fair  of  mien  or 

face, 
She  hath  attracted  to  my  humble  place 

A  company  most  gracious  and  refined, 
Whose   touches   are   like   balm,  whose 

voices  kind : 
Sweet  Sympathy,  with  box  of  ointment 

rare; 
Courage,    who    sings    while    she    sits 

weaving  there; 

Brave  Patience,  whom  my  heart  esteem- 

eth  much, 
And  who  hath  wondrous  virtue  in  her 

touch. 

Such  is  the  chaste  and  sweet  society 
Which    Pain,    my     faithful    foe,    hath 

brought  to  me. 


28  My  Uninvited  Guest. 

And  now  upon  my  threshold  there  she 

stands, 
Reaching  to  me  her  rough  yet  kindly 

hands 
In   silent  truce.      Thus  for  a  time  we 

part, 
And   a   great    gladness    overflows    my 

heart; 

For  she  is  so  ungentle  in  her  way 
That  no  host  welcomes  her  or  bids  her 

stay; 
Yet,  though   men   bolt   and   bar   their 

house  from  thee, 
To  every  door,  O  Pain,  thou  hast  a  key ! 


HIS  NAME. 

HEN     I    shall    go    where    my 

Redeemer  is, 
In  the  far  City,  on  the  other 

side, 
And  at  the  threshold  of  his  palaces 

Shall  loose  my  sandals,  ever  to  abide, 
I  know  my  Heavenly  King  will  smiling 

wait 

To   give   me  welcome  as   I  reach   the 
gate. 

Oh,  joy !   oh,  bliss !    for  I  shall  see  his 

face, 
And  wear  his  blessed  Name  upon  my 

brow,  — 
That  Name  which  stands   for   pardon, 

love,  and  grace,  — 


30  His  Name. 

That  Name  before  which  every  knee 

shall  bow; 

No  music  half  so  sweet  can  ever  be, 
As    that    dear   Name   which    he   shall 

write  for  me ! 

Crowned  with  this  royal  signet,  I  shall 

walk 
With    lifted    forehead     through    the 

eternal  street, 
And  with   a   holier   mien  and    gentler 

talk 
Will  tell  my  story  to  the  friends   I 

meet,  — 
Of  how  the  King  did  stoop  his  Name 

to  write 
Upon  my  brow  in  characters  of  light. 

Then,  till   I    go   to   meet  my  Father's 

smile, 

I  '11  keep  my  forehead  smooth  from 
passion's  scars, — 


His  Name.  31 

From  angry  frowns  that   trample   and 

defile, 
And    every  sin   that   desecrates   and 

mars, 
That  I  may  lift  a  face  unflushed  with 

shame, 
Whereon  my  Lord  may  write  his  holy 

Name ! 


IF  THIS  WERE  TWENTY  CENTURIES 
AGO. 


F    this    were    twenty    centuries 

ago, 
And  three  wise   men   should 

seek  my  house,  and  say: 
"  We    bring    glad    tidings !      Christ   is 

born  to-day; 
Arise,   and   follow   yonder   star,  whose 

glow 
Will  lead  you  to  the  child !  "  —  would  I 

obey, 
If  this  were  twenty  centuries  ago? 

From  out  my  urn  of  precious,  hoarded 

things 
Would  I  make  haste  to  pour  the  richest 

share 


If  this  were  Twenty  Centuries  Ago.    33 

For  him?  The  sweetest  of  my  per 
fumes  spare 

To  bathe  the  feet  of  the  young  King  of 
kings? 

Or  break  the  costliest  ointment  on  his 
hair 

From  out  my  urn  of  precious,  hoarded 
things? 

Alas  !  I  dare  not  say  this  would  I  do, 
Since    I    have    slighted    many  another 

guest 
That   came  from    God,  —  have   stayed 

from  many  a  quest 
That  would  have  led  me  to  the  good 

and  true, 
To   slumber    on  with    head    upon    my 

breast ; 
Nay,  nay  !  I  dare  not  say  this  would  I  do. 

My  best  resolves  like  shifting  shadows 

are; 
Each   day  some    holy   light    shines  on 

unsought,  — 


34    If  this  were  Twenty  Centuries  Ago. 

And  while  my  silly,  fluttering  wings  are 

caught 
.By   the   world's    rosy   candle,    Christ's 

own  star  — 
How  can  I  tell?  —  might  beckon  me  for 

naught; 
My  best  resolves  like  shifting  shadows 

are. 

And    when    Christ    comes    again,  —  as 

come  he  will  — 
And  wise  ones  hasten  forth  with  rapt 

delight 
To  welcome  him,  and  own  his  kingly 

right, 
Will  men  be  questioning  and  doubting 

still, 
As  when  upon  that  first,  far  Christmas 

night,  - 
When    Christ   shall    come    again, —  as 

come  he  will? 


THE  SLIGHTED   FLOWERS. 

HE    slept ;    and   the   dream    of 

Heaven 

With  its  rapturous  surprise, 
Had  folded  the  silken  lashes 

Over  the  tender  eyes; 
And    the    peace   which  passeth  knowl 
edge 

Seemed,  to  our  mortal  sight, 
To  circle  the  pallid  forehead 
With  a  ring  of  holy  light. 

She  lay  while  we  piled  the  lilies, 
Like  drifts  of  odorous  snow, 

On    the    breast   whose    thoughts    were 

whiter 
Than  milkiest  flowers  that  blow. 


36  The  Slighted  Flowers. 

We  braided  them  in  her  tresses, 
Their  petals  caressed  her  face, 

But  she  who  had  loved  the  lilies 
Was  heedless  now  of  their  grace. 

She  slighted  the  timid  beauty 

Of  violets,  chaste  and  sweet, 
That  trailed  like  a  purple  ribbon 

From  girdle  to  unshod  feet. 
And  she  uttered  no  word  of  chiding, 

When  we  crushed  a  rose  in  our  hand; 
So  we  knew  by  these  silent  tokens 

She  had  gone  to  the  Unknown  Land. 


MARY   WAKEFIELD. 

GAINST    the    painted    hell   of 

Angelo 

I    set    this    living    picture    of 
despair: 
A  burning  ship,  strong  men  distraught 

with  woe, 
Rough  seamen's  oaths,  which  meant 

not  oaths,  but  prayer; 
White    pleading   faces,    little    children's 

cries, 

And    women's    arms    flung    upward    to 
the  skies ! 


38  Mary  Wakefidd. 

Along    the    burning     deck    a    woman 

sped 
While  the  red  horror  close  and  closer 

pressed 
Until  its  hot  breath  scorched  her  baby's 

head, 
Hiding   itself    within   her    throbbing 

breast; 
When,    shrinking    backward    from   the 

flames'  mad  kiss, 
She  reeled  into  the  water's  black  abyss ! 

Poor  mother !     Was  it  granted  her  to 

see, 
Ere  sight  was  veiled  by  the  engulfing 

wave, 

The  noble  girl  whose  arms  so  lustily 
Wrested  from  her  the  babe  she  could 

not  save ; 
And    dared,    in    a    baptismal   scene   so 

wild, 
To   stand  as  sponsor  to  this  orphaned 

child? 


Mary  Wakefield.  39 

And  this  was  Mary  Wakefield.     Daunt 
less  girl, 

Who,  with  a  child  across  her  shoulder 
thrown, 

Set  out  to  wage  with  death  against  the 

whirl 

Of   those   mad    waves,  hand-fettered 
and  alone ! 

A  deed  that  gave  her  right  to  stand  erect 

With  seraphim,  nor    show  them  disre 
spect  ! 

With  one  firm  hand  she  held  against 

the  tide 
The  sobbing  child.    The  other  tightly 

grasped 
A  fender  swinging  from  the  steamer's 

side, 

By  a  stout  cable  to  the  railing  clasped  ; 
She  drew  the  heavy  beam  on  inch  by 

inch 
Toward  the  nearest  flame,  nor  did  she 

flinch 


40  Mary  Wakefield. 

Though  the  hot  tongues  came  hissing 

at  her  brow. 
With  patient  toil  she  guided  on  the 

rope 
To  where  the  flame  could  bite  at  it ;  and 

now 

She  has  the  joyful  answer  to  her  hope  ! 
It  burns  asunder,  and  the  heavy  beam 
Drops  down  before  her  into  the  black 

stream ! 

Upon  this  strange  steed's  back  she  then 

set  down 
The    little    child.      And  pushing    on 

before 
Holding  between  her  teeth  the  baby's 

gown, 
She  struck  out  bravely  for  the  distant 

shore, 
A  league  away,  with  well-aimed,  steady 

strides, 
While  on  its  dripping  steed  the  baby 

rides ! 


Mary  Wakefield.  41 

As  rose  and  fell  the  girl's  white  oars, 

the  rain 

Thrummed  its  dull  monotone.     The 
thunders  rolled 

Their  heavy  drums.      The  wind  swept 

a  refrain. 

Some  distant  bells  the  hour  of  mid 
night  told. 

And  now  and  then  the  lightning's  vivid 
thread 

Through   the    thick    darkness   wove    a 
seam  of  red ! 

Strong  men  went  shuddering  down  to 

death  that  night, 
Whose    arms   were    like    to    knitted 

strands  of  steel, 
While  this  slight  girl  waged  an  unequal 

fight 

For  two  —  making  no  loud  appeal 
To  God,  but  praying  mutely  with  her 

arms, 
Seeking  the  while  to  sooth  the  child's 

alarms ! 


42  Mary  Wake  field. 

"  Hush,  little   one !      Home  is  not   far 

away, 
And  I  am  here  holding  you  by  your 

gown, 
Just  as  old   Rover  holds  you  when  at 

play; 
And  with  my  strong   arms  plashing 

up  and  down, 
I  make  your  queer  horse  gallop  to  the 

shore, 
And  baby   shall  be   cold    and   wet   no 

more !  " 

Then,  with  a  tenderness  almost  divine, 
She  tried  to  thrust  a  merry  nursery 
song 

Through    her    shut    teeth ;    and    while 

each  panting  line 

Smote  on  her  jaded  breath  like  smart 
ing  thong, 

I  think  God  ringed  her  with  an  unseen 
crown, 

And  every  face  in  heaven   bent  softly 
down ! 


Mary  Wakefield.  43 

And  thus  she  won  the  shore.     There  on 

the  sands 
A  seaman  lay,  half  naked,  cold  and 

faint. 
Unfastening   her   gown   with    shivering 

hands, 
She  laid  it  on  him.     Then  this  gentle 

saint 

Lifted  the  sleeping  baby  to  her  breast, 
And  toiled,  half-fainting,  to  a  place  of 

rest! 


THE  WEARY   MODEL. 

NE  day,  an  artist  in  his  studio, 
Upon    his    model    draped    a 

quaint  old  gown, 
Of  some  rare  Indian  stuff,  wove  long 

ago 
Of  countless  mellow  shades  of  gold 

and  brown,  — 
Sunshine  and  shadow,  like  the  shining 

hair 

That  Raphael  made  his  sweet  Madonnas 
wear. 

Silent  and  passive,  as  if  carved  of  stone, 
Stood  the  young  model  in  her  love 
liness  ; 


The  Weary  Model,  45 

For  now  the  tireless  artist  sought  alone 
To  paint  the  gold-brown  shimmer  of 

the  dress ; 
Nor  must  she  stir  the  robe  which  flashed 

and  shone, — 
Hers   to    be   patient    and    be    wrought 

upon. 

At  last  the  sinuous  folds  were  all  com 
plete  ; 

Like    a   soft   wave  they   bathed    the 
pliant  girl, 

And,  rippling  from  the  shoulders  to  the 

feet, 
Fell  on  the  carpet  in  a  silken  swirl : 

And    then   the  painter   on    his   canvas 
wrought, 

Trying   to    paint  the   language   of   his 
thought. 

All  day  the  magic  colors  softly  flowed, 
Until  it  seemed  as  if  some  wondrous 
spell 


46  The  Weary  Model. 

Possessed  the  hour,  and  like  a  radiance 

glowed 
In  the  fair  lines  that  on  his  canvas 

fell: 
And    as    the    hours,    down-shod,   went 

slipping  past, 
His  dream  of  fame  seemed  blossoming 

at  last. 

See  how  the  witchery  of  that  old  dress 
Makes  a  soft  mirror  of  the  canvas, 

where, 

The  artist,  with  a  lover's  tenderness, 
Bestows  faint  glints  of  lustre  here  and 

there ! 
Almost  to   his    quick   fancy  the    folds 

stir 
With  their  old  scents  of  rosemary  and 

myrrh ! 

Just  then  the  weary  girl  forgetful  grew 
And  swept  a  hand  along  each  flowing 
line, 


The  Weary  Model.  47 

Alas,  a  hundred  ripples  straightway  flew 

In  answer  to  that  little  heedless  sign ! 

The  glistening  folds  were  changed  from 

belt  to  hem, 
All  the  familiar  grace  gone  out  of  them. 

The  startled  girl  looked  in  the  artist's 

face 
And  read  the  story  of  his  loss  and 

pain. 
She  could  not   call   the  lines   back  to 

their  place, 
Regret    and    sighing    were    alike    in 

vain, 

Naught  can  revive  an  inspiration  dead ; 
The  golden  vision  had  forever  fled ! 

What   lesson,  O   my  soul,  is   here   for 

thee 

That  chideth  this  poor  model  over 
much? 

To    stand    henceforth    more    still    and 
patiently 


48  The  Weary  Model. 

Beneath  the  fashioning  of  God's  fine 

touch ! 
For  ah,  what  grace  by  the  Great  Artist 

planned 
Has    been    effaced    by   thy    impatient 

hand! 


PARTING  COMRADES. 


DIEU,  kind  Life,  though  thou 

hast  often  been 
Lavish  of  quip,  and  scant  of 

courtesy, 
Beneath  thy  roughness  I  have  found  in 

thee 
A    host    who    doth    my    parting    favor 

win. 
Friend,  teacher,  sage,  and  sometimes 

harlequin, 
Thine  every  mood  hath  held  some  good 

for  me,  — 

Nor  ever  friendlier  seemed  thy  company 
Than  on  this  night  when  I  must  quit 
thine  inn. 

4 


50  Parting  Comrades. 

I  love  thee,  Life,  in  spite  of  thy  rude 

ways ! 
Dear  is  thy  pleasant  house,  so  long 

my  home. 

I  thank  thee  for  the  hospitable  days, 
The  friends,  the  rugged  cheer.    Then, 

landlord,  come ! 
Pour  me   a   stirrup  cup, —  our  parting 

nears ; 
I  ever  liked  thy  wine,  though  salt  with 

tears. 


UNSEEN  GUESTS. 

have  come  back  —  the  absent 

whom  you  miss  — 
To  pledge  with  you  before  the 

feast  is  done : 
You  do  not  feel  our  tender  clasp  and 

kiss, 

Nor  hear  us  softly  enter  one  by  one. 
Your  voices  drown  our  signals  faint  and 

low, 

But  pledge  your  unseen  guests  before 
you  go. 

We  waft  our  souls  to  you  as  thistle- 
blooms 

Launch  on  the  winds  their  airy  mar 
iners,  — 

O  Hearts !  Spread  wide  for  us  your 
pleasant  rooms, 


52  Unseen  Guests. 

Nor  coldly  greet  the  eager  travellers ! 
From  your  fair  loving   cup  a  draught 

bestow 
On  friends  of  "  auld  lang  syne,"  before 

you  go. 

Our  memory  spells  the  very  flowers  you 

wear,  — 

The  roses  in  their  crystal  chalices ! 
She  knows  the  tricks  of  speech,  of  eyes, 

of  hair :  — 

Ah  !  't  is  a  faithful  tapestry  she  weaves  ! 
And  since  so  fair  and   true  her  colors 

show, 
Then  fill  to  Memory  before  you  go. 

And  who  can  tell?     Perhaps  they  too 

are  here,  — 
Our  angels  whom  we  wrongly  name  our 

dead! 

Leaving  their  bliss  awhile  to  linger  near 
Some  heart  that  joy  hath   left  unten- 

anted. 


Unseen  Guests.  53 

Ah,  friends  !    They  may  be  nearer  than 

we  know, 
Then  pledge  them  tenderly  before  you 

go! 

Why  do  we  call  them  dead  from  whose 

hot  grasp 

God  kindly  takes  a  tear-embittered  bowl, 
And   sets    instead    within    the    longing 

clasp 
His  perfect  cup  of  rapture?     Nay,  sad 

soul ! 

Name  not  God's  richest  gift  to  mortals  so, 
But  quaff  to  Life,  full  Life,  before  you 

go! 

Love  is  the  pilot  of  our  silent  crew; 
No  boat  so  stanch,  no  sails  so  trim  and 

white. 
Full  well  he  knew  the  path  that  led  to 

you 
Through    trackless    air,    and   sea,    and 

moonless  night. 


54  Unseen  Guests. 

Nor  aught  cares  he  how  wild  the  March 

winds  blow ! 
Then  fill  a  glass  to   Love  before   you 

go. 

Good-bye !     Good-bye !     though    Love 

hath  many  ports 
Where  winds  are  soft  and  ships  may  lie 

at  rest, 
Home  is  the  sheltered  bay  he  fondliest 

courts,  — 

Home  is  the  little  harbor  he  loves  best. 
Hither  we  sail  away,  —  yo  ho  !   yo  ho  ! 
Then  drain  the  glass  to  Home  before 

you  go. 


THREESCORE  AND   TEN. 

AM  past  my  threescore  years 

and  ten ; 
I   have   quaffed    full   cups  of 

bliss  and  bane; 
Grown  drunk  on  folly  like  other  men, 

With  its  present  sweet  and  after-pain  ; 
I  have  had  my  share  of  cloud  and  sun ; 
And  what  is  it  all,  when  all  is  done? 

We  have  had  our  frolic,  Life  and  I ; 

Jovial  comrades  we  used  to  be. 
Full  sails  to-day,  with  a  silver  sky, 

Anon  dead  calm  and  a  sullen  sea. 
Now   I    fear  the  waves,  so  I  hug   the 

shore 
With  my  tattered  sail  and  broken  oar. 


56  Threescore  and  Ten. 

I  have  worn  love's  flower  upon  my  breast, 
And  said  my  prayers  to  a  woman's 

face. 
The  saints  forgive  us  !    If  men  addressed 

Such  orisons  to  the  heavenly  Grace, 
They  would  upward   mount,  as  strong 

birds  do, 

And    answer   bring  from  the   heavenly 
blue! 

I  have  known  the  best  that  life  can  hold 
Of  fame  and  fortune,  love  and  power. 
And  when  my  riotous  blood  grew  cold, 
I   cheered  with   books  the  lingering 

hour; 

Banqueting  on  the  costly  wine 
Which  Genius  pours  from  her  flagons 
fine. 

Yet  I  would  rather  lie  to-day 

Where   orchard    blooms    drift   down 

their  snow, 
And  feel  lost  youth  in  my  pulses  play, 


Threescore  and  Ten.  5  7 

Its  rosy  wine  in  my  hot  cheeks  glow ; 
I  would  rather  be  young,  —  and  foolish, 

forsooth,  — 

Than   own    the    baubles   we   buy  with 
youth. 

I  would  barter  fortune,  fame,  and  power, 
All  knowledge  gained  of  books  and 

men, 
For  my  old  delight  at  the  first  spring 

flower, 

A  robin's  egg,  or  a  captured  wren 
From    its   nest    hid    under   the   tossing 

plume 
Of  a  sweet,  old-fashioned  lilac  bloom. 

With  the  world's  stale  feast  I  am  sur 
feited  ; 

I  long  to-day  for  the  old-time  thrill 
At  the  purple  pomp  of  a  pansy  bed, 

Or  the  fresh  spring  scent  of  a  daffodil. 
Alas,  I  shall  never  be  thrilled  again ! 
I  am  old,  —  yes,  past  threescore  and  ten. 


A  MARCH  WEDDING. 

M PATIENT  lovers,  have   you 

then  no  care 
That  summer  holds  a  month 

divinely  fair; 

When  laughing  brooks  and  softly  whis 
pering  trees 
Chime  with  the  tune  of  birds  and  hum 

of  bees ; 

When  color,  light,  and  perfume  every 
where, 
Toss  out   their  sumptuous   banners   to 

the  air? 
Wait,  then,  for  June,  and  pin  the  bridal 

veil 

With   hyacinths   and    lilies    sweet    and 
pale. 


A  March  Wedding.  59 

And  yet,  what  matter  how  the  March 

winds  blow? 
You    make   your   own   fair  summer  as 

you  go; 
Love  hath,  like  death,  all  seasons   for 

her  own, 
And  in  each  month  sets   up   her  rosy 

throne. 
And  I,  —  worn,  weary,   and    oppressed 

with  care, 
The    dust    of    travel    white    upon    my 

hair,  — 
Would  give  the  listless  years  now  left 

to  me 
For  one  swift  moment  of  your  ecstasy ! 


A   GIFT  OF  GENTIANS. 


E  timid,  fluttering  things,  whose 

fringes  rare 
Are  dipped    in   colors   drawn 

from  babies'  eyes  ; 

Whose  robe  of  gossamer  is  spun  of  air, 
In  the  same  loom  with  June's   deli 
cious  skies  ; 
Whose  dainty  hems,  and  skirts  so  silken 

fine, 
The  fairies  trust  no  awkward  brush  to 

trace ; 

Much  do  I  marvel  that,  with  added  line, 
A  mortal's  hand  can  paint  each  flower- 
face  ! 

But  know  you  not  the  one  who  sought 
you  out 


A  Gift  of  Gentians.  61 

Holds  in  his  palm  such  magic  strong 

and  fine 
That   it   has    even  wrapped   thy  grace 

about 
With  something  more  delightful  and 

divine? 

And  so,  with  glad  obeisance,  do  I  greet 
Our  first  acquaintance,  —  tender,  blue- 
eyed  things ! 

For  with  a  benediction  good  and  sweet, 
You     fold    within     my   hands    your 

feathery  wings. 
And    from   this   day   your   azure  wells 

shall  be 
The    mirror   of    a   face    so   true  and 

good, 
Your  sweet  suggestions  can  but  be  to 

me 
The  impulse  to  a  better  womanhood ! 


HIS   BIRTHDAY. 

HE  day  the  Christ-child's  tender 

eyes 
Unveiled  their  beauty  on  the 

earth, 
God  lit  a  new  star  in  the  skies 

To  flash  the  message  of  his  birth; 
And  wise  men  read  the  glowing  sign, 
And  came  to  greet  the  Child  divine. 

Low  kneeling  in  the  stable's  gloom 
Their    precious    treasures    they    un 
rolled  ; 

The  place  was  rich  with  sweet  perfume; 
Upon  the  floor  lay  gifts  of  gold. 

And  thus,  adoring,  they  did  bring 

To  Christ  the  earliest  offering. 


His  Birthday.      .  63 

I  think  no  nimbus  wreathed  the  head 
Of  the  young  King  so  rudely  throned ; 

The  quilt  of  hay  beneath  him  spread 
The  sleepy  kine  beside  him  owned ; 

And  here  and  there  in  the  torn  thatch 

The  sky  thrust  in  a  starry  patch. 

Oh,    when     was      new-born      monarch 
shrined 

Within  such  canopy  as  this? 
The  birds  have  cradles  feather-lined; 

And  for  their  new  babes  princesses 
Have  sheets  of  lace  without  a  flaw,  — 
His  pillow  was  a  wisp  of  straw ! 

He  chose  this  way,  it  may  have  been, 
That  those  poor  mothers,  everywhere, 

Whose  babies  in  the  world's  great  inn 
Find  scanty  cradle-room  and  fare, 

As  did  the  babe  of  Bethlehem, 

May  find  somewhat  to  comfort  them. 


64  His  Birthday. 

Thus  was  he  born.     And  since  that  time 
We  crown  the  day  with  wreath  and 
song; 

The  bells  laugh  out  in  merry  chime, 
And  he  his  royal  Guest  doth  wrong 

Who  welcomes  him  with  gloomy  fears, 

Or  salts  the  birthday  feast  with  tears. 


COMING  HOME. 

HAVE  come  to  the  dear  old 

threshold, 

With  eager,   hurrying  feet, 
To  scent  the  odorous  lilies 

That  once  were  so  white  and  sweet. 
To  taste  the  apricots  mellow 

That  crimson  the  garden  wall ; 
To  gather  the  golden  pippins 
That  down  in  the  orchard  fall. 

I  passed  by  the  uncut  hedges, 

And  up  through  the  thistled  walk, 
And  beside  the  fall  of  my  footsteps 

There  was  only  the  crickets'  talk. 
The  weeds  grew  high  in  the  arbor, 

And  the  nettles,  rank  and  tall, 
Had  throttled  the  sweet-breathed  lilies 

That  leaned  on  the  latticed  wall. 
5 


66  Coming  Home. 

The  little  white  house  is  empty, 

Its  ceilings  are  cobwebbed  o'er, 
And  the  dust  and  mould  are  lying 

Thick  on  the  trackless  floor. 
There  are  no  prints  in  the  doorway, 

No  garments  hung  in  the  hall, 
And  the  ghosts  of  death  and  silence 

Sit  and  gloat  over  all ! 

No  eager  faces  of  children 

Brightened  the  window-pane, 
Never  a  peal  of  laughter 

Rippled  along  the  lane; 
So  I  turned  through  the  daisies  yellow, 

That  nodded  to  see  me  pass, 
To  seek  for  the  mellow  pippins 

That  drop  in  the  orchard  grass. 

But  I  found  a  worm  in  my  apples, 
And  flung  them  sadly  away  ; 

The  pool  that  I  thought  eternal 
All  foul  and  poisonous  lay. 


Coming  Home.  67 

A  black  snake  crept  from  its  hiding 
And  hissed  in  the  marshes  wild, 

And  I  bent  my  head  in  the  rushes 
And  sobbed  like  a  homesick  child ! 


A  THANKSGIVING  PRAYER. 

OR  toil  that  is  a  medicine   for 

woe, 

For  strength  that  grows  with 
every  lifted  cross, 
For  thorns,  since  with  each  thorn  a  rose 

did  grow, 

For  gain  that  I  have  wrongly  reck 
oned  loss, 
For  ignorance,  where  it  were  harm  to 

know,  — 
Teach  me  to  thank  thee,  Lord. 

For    cups   of    honeyed    pleasure   thou 

didst  spill 
Before  their  foam  had  quenched  my 

purer  sense ; 
For  that  my  soul  has  power  to  struggle 

still, 


A  Thanksgiving  Prayer.  69 

Though  panting  in  the  trappings  of 

pretence ; 
And    for    mistakes    that     saved     from 

greater  ill,  — • 
Teach  me  to  thank  thee,  Lord. 

That  thou  dost  ravel  out  the  tinselled 

thread 
Of  my  poor  work  I  thought  so  bravely 

done; 
That  thou  dost  show  me  every  flimsy 

shred 
In   the   thin  coat   of    honor    I    have 

spun, 
And  pluck'st  the  slender  garland  from 

my  head,  — 
Teach  me  to  thank  thee,  Lord. 

For  ills  averted,  all  unseen  by  me, 
For  darkened  days  that   healed  my 
dazzled  eyes, 

For    suffering   which    brought   a   com 
pany 


70  A  Thanksgiving  Prayer. 

Of  gentle  ministers,  in  stern  disguise; 
For  weariness,  which  made  me  lean  on 

thee,  — 
Teach  me  to  thank  thee,  Lord. 

For   chalices   of  tears   that  thou   dost 

pour, 
For   unrequited    love    and   wounded 

pride; 
If  they  but  tempt  my  lonesome  heart 

the  more 
To  seek  the   faithful  shelter   of   thy 

side; 
For  homelessness,  which  drives  me  to 

thy  door, — 
Teach  me  to  thank  thee,  Lord. 


THE  INN  OF  REST. 


OILING     among     my     garden 

thorns  one  day, 
While  in  a  stirless  swoon  the 
hot  air  lay, 
A  traveller  passed  toward  the  glowing 

west, 

Who  seemed  intent  upon  some  cheer 
ful  quest, 

For  with  a  song  he  did  beguile  the  way. 
Perhaps  some  question  stirred  within 

my  eyes, 
For  thus  he  spake :  "  In  yonder  valley 

lies, 
Among  the  murmurous  trees,  the  Inn 

called  Rest; 
Where  all  the  pillows  are  with  poppies 

strewn, 

Where  toil-worn  feet   are   shod  with 
silken  shoon, 


72  The  Inn  of  Rest. 

And  bed   of  down    awaits   each  jaded 

guest; 

I  haste  at  this  good  Inn  to  make  request, 
For  see !  the  dial  marks  the  hour  of 

noon." 

"God    grant,"    I    cried,    "you    reach 
that  threshold  soon  !  " 

The  singer  passed,  and  in  the  winding 

lane 
I    lost    at    length    the    thread    of    his 

refrain. 

One  Sabbath  eve,  consoled  and  com 
forted 
By  chant  and  prayer  at  vesper-service 

said, 
With  a  Laus  Deo  thrilling  through  my 

pain, 
I  left  the  church,  and  careless  where 

I   went, 
Behind   its  ivied  walls  my  footsteps 

bent, 

Among  the  low  green  tents  where  dwell 
the  dead. 


The  Inn-  of  Rest.  73 

The  chill  winds    sobbed   among  the 

grasses  sere 
Which    thatched    the    narrow   roofs. 

The  sky  was  drear, 
And  drops  of  rain  fell  on  my  down-bent 

head. 

Turning  to  go,  upon  a  stone  I  read 
A   name,    and    dropped    upon   these 

words  a  tear : 
"  He    sought    an    Inn    of  Rest,    and 

found  it — here." 


A   STRADIVARIUS  VIOLIN. 

HE  music  of  this  ancient  violin 
Is  haunted  as  men's  chambers 

sometimes  are. 
Along  the  liquid  ladder  of  each  bar 
Phantoms  of  pleasure  dance ;   Regret 

steals  in, 
With   happier   ghosts,  and   Fate  her 

wheel  doth  spin. 
Torn  butterflies  of  hope  a  breath  did 

mar 

Here  flutter,  like  the  flame  within  a  star. 
And  if  thou  wouldst,  O  soul,  nepenthe 

win, 
Pause  not  beside  this  portal,  lest  thou 

hear 

The  voice  of  thy  dead  sorrow  whis 
pering  near ! 


A  Stradivarius  Violin.          75 

For   every  passion   that   thy    life    hath 

known,  — 
Anguish     benumbed,    and    love    thou 

thought'st  flown, — 
Among  these  peerless  octaves  veiled, 

wait 

To  speak  to  thee  across  the  stringed 
gate. 


AN  OCTOBER   BANQUET. 

]ITH  many  a  curve  of  her  brown 

wrist, 

The  hospitable  vine, 
In  clustered  bowls  of  amethyst, 
Hands  down  her  unpressed  wine. 

A  gentle  courtesy  is  hers  ; 

She  works  her  guests  no  ill; 
The  simple  goblet  she  confers 

Imparts  no  fever-thrill. 

I  fling  the  drained  and  broken  cups 

Among  the  garden  trees  ; 
While  butterfly  comes  down  and  sups 

Upon  the  honeyed  lees. 


TRUST. 

ITHIN    the   slender  chalice   of 

thy  hand 
Hold  fast  what  I   give  thee ; 

and  drop  down,  too, 
The  fringes  of  those  tender   flowers 

of  blue,  — 
Thy   wondering    eyes,  —  nor    question 

nor  withstand 
What  I   may  give.     Perhaps   my  love 

hath  planned 
Some  sweet  surprise,  or  test  if  love 

be  true. 

What  if  it  be  a  sprig  of  bitterest  rue, 
A   swift,  strange    summons   to    an    un 
known  land, 

A    hurting    thorn,    a   cross?      Strange 
gifts,  1  know, 


78  Trust. 

For  love  to  bring  ;    but  wouldst  thou 

trust  me  still? 
Quick,  dear,  —  thine  answer! 

"  I  should  trust  until 
The  hidden  meaning  in  thy  gift  should 

show." 
Ah,    sweet !     when    God   sends    just 

such  gifts  to  thee 

Canst  thou   not  answer  him  as  thou 
dost  me? 


THE   PERFECT  NICHE. 

IKE   some  rare   structure   seen 

but  in  our  dreams, 
And    builded    of    aerial  warp 

and  woof, 

Milan  Cathedral  to  my  vision  seems, 
With  its  fair  towers  and  transcendent 
roof. 

I  see  it  now  as  on  that  perfect  day, 
When    last   I    climbed    to   where    its 

glistening  spires, 
Like  a  great  field  of  sculptured   lilies 

lay, 

Fadeless     and     bright    beneath    the 
noonday  fires. 


8o  The  Perfect  Niche. 

Through  the  rich  fretwork  the  Italian 

sky 
Thrusts  its  fine  color,  like  an   azure 

flower ; 

And  in  the  silent  night  the  stars  on  high 
Hang  their  soft  lamps  within   each 
slender  tower. 

And  niched  away  within  the  airy  loft, 
Where  the  bell's  clamor  wounds  the 

quiet  air, 
And  the  world's  noises  grow  subdued 

and  soft 

When  they  have  climbed  to  the  white 
chambers  there, —   ' 

Within  an  arch,  enriched  with  chiselled 

lace, 

Is  a  pure  image,  by  Canova  wrought, 
Where  none  may  mount  its  snowy  lines 

to  trace, 

Or  read  the  graceful  language  of  his 
thought. 


The  Perfect  Niche.  81 

Art  may  not  slake  her  eager,  burning 

gaze 

Beside  this  frozen  fountain  of  delight ; 
Nor  golden  hammer  break  the  carven 

vase 

That  hides   the  costly  incense   from 
our  sight. 

Like  one  white  petal  of  a  perfect  bloom, 

Enfolded  where  no  human  eye  can  see, 

Canova's  statue  stands  through  sun  and 

gloom, 

And   makes  its    shrine  a  snowy  har 
mony. 

O    life,    my   life !     that    cravest    larger 

place, 
Prating  of  rusted    gifts,  of  pinioned 

feet, 
Peace  !  —  thou  wilt  need  thine  own  and 

borrowed  grace, 

If  thou    wouldst    make    thy   narrow 
niche  complete. 
6 


CHRIST   HAS   RISEN! 

sad-faced   mourners,  who   each 

day  are  wending 
Through  churchyard  paths  of 

cypress  and  of  yew, 
Leave,  for  to-day,  the  low  graves  you 

are  tending, 

And  lift  your  eyes  to  God's  eternal 
blue! 

Leave,  for  to-day,  all  murmuring   and 

sadness  ; 

Twine  Easter  lilies,  and  not  aspho 
dels; 
Let  your  souls  answer  to  the  thrill  of 

gladness, 
And  to  the  melody  of  Easter  bells. 


Christ  Has  Risen!  83 

If  Christ   were  still  within  the  grave's 

low  prison,  — 

A  captive  to  the  enemy  you  dread ; 
If  from  that  mouldering  cell  he  had  not 

risen, 

Who  then  could  chide  the  bitter  tears 
you  shed? 

Poor  hearts  !  the  butterfly,  with  pinions 

golden, 
Spurns   the   gray  cell  which   erst  its 

freedom  barred ; 
And    the    freed    soul,    with    wings    no 

longer  holden, 

Smiles  back  on  life  as  on  a  broken 
shard. 

If  Christ  were  dead,  you  would    have 

need  to  sorrow; 
But    he    has    risen,    and    conquered 

death  for  aye ! 
Then   dry   your  tears,   if   only  till   the 

morrow ; 
Arise,  and  give  your  grief  a  holiday ! 


"  BEHOLD,    I     STAND    AT    THE 
DOOR." 

HEAR   thy   knock,  O   Lord, 

but,  woe  is  me  ! 
I    have    been    busy    in    the 

world's  great  mart, 
And  have  no  table  spread  within  my 

heart, 

Nor  any  room  made  beautiful  for  thee 
With    burnished    lamp    and    sprigs    of 

rosemary; 
And  should  thy  stainless  hands  the 

curtains  part, 
Thy    tender    eyes    would    miss    the 

joyous  start,  — 
The  happy  tears,  the  reverent  ecstasy. 


"  "Behold,  I  Stand  at  the  Door."     85 

Neglected  is  the  house  thy  love  doth 

lend; 
The  ashes  of  dead  fires  bestrew  the 

hearth ; 
And  still  I  hear  thy  voice.    O  Heavenly 

Friend, 
Come  down  to  sup  with  me  upon  the 

earth, 
What  if  at  last  thou  shouldst  the  slight 

repay, 
And  welcome  me  as  I  do  thee  to-day? 


DEAD   BIRDS   AND    EASTER. 


T  was  an  Easter  morning,  bright 

and  calm, 
And  life,  not  death,  was  the 

glad  theme  that  day; 
The  air  was  full  of  spring's  delicious 

balm  ; 
The   maple  buds  were   drooping   on 

the  way ; 

And  one  sweet  leaf,  with  flush  of  crim 
son  on  it, 

Fell  on  the  dead  birds  of  a  woman's 
bonnet. 

What  say  the  bells  at  these  good  Easter 

times? 

They  tell  of  vanquished    death   and 
risen  life. 


Dead  Birds  and  Easter.  87 

Hush,  then,  O  bells,  your  inconsistent 

chimes, 
You  and  the  dull  old  world  are  hard 

at  strife  ; 
For  surely,  when  the  crimson  leaf  fell 

on  it, 
I    saw    dead    birds    upon    a    woman's 

bonnet ! 


What  does  it  cost,  —  this  garniture  of 

death  ? 
It  costs  the  life  which  God  alone  can 

give  ; 
It  costs  dull  silence  where  was  music's 

breath ; 
It  costs  dead  joy,  that  foolish  pride 

may  live. 
Ah,  life,  and  joy,  and   song — depend 

upon  it  — 
Are    costly  trimmings   for   a   woman's 

bonnet ! 


88  Dead  Birds  and  Easter. 

Oh,  who  would  stop  the  sweet  pulse  of 

a  lark, 

That  flutters  in  such  ecstacy  of  bliss, 
Or  lay  a  robin's  bright  breast  cold  and 

stark, 

For  such  a  paltry  recompense  as  this? 
Oh,   you  who    love  your  babies,  think 

upon  it,  — 
Mothers   are    slaughtered,  just  to  trim 

your  bonnet ! 

Will    Herod    never  cease   to    rule    the 

land, 
That  we  must  slay  sweet  innocency 

so? 
Is    joy   so    cheap,    or   happiness    sure 

planned? 
Tell  me,  O   friend,  who  art  acquaint 

with  woe ! 
Does  thy  sad  heart  proclaim  no  protest 

on  it? 
Wouldst  thou  slay  happiness,  just  for  a 

bonnet? 


Dead  Birds  and  Easter.  89 

And  must  God's  choirs  that  through  his 

forests  rove, 
Granting  sweet  matinees  to  high  and 

low, 
Must   his   own   orchestra   of  field    and 

grove  — 
Himself  their  leader  —  be  disbanded 

so? 
Nay,  nay!     O   God,  proclaim  thy  ban 

upon  it, — 
Guard  thy  dear  birds  from  sport,  and 

greed,  and  bonnet ! 


Their  fine-spun  hammocks,  swinging  in 

the  breeze, 
Should  be  as  safe  as  babies'  cradles 

are; 
And    no    rude    hand    that    tears    them 

from  the  trees, 

Or    dares    a    sweet    bird's    property 
to  mar, 


90  Dead  Birds  and  Easter. 

Deserves    a    woman's    touch     or    kiss 

upon  it, 
Unless  —  she   wears   dead    birds   upon 

her  bonnet! 

Dead     birds !      and     dead     for    gentle 

woman's  sake, 

To   feed    awhile    her    vanity's    poor 
breath  ; 

And  yet  the  foolish  bells  sweet  clamor 
make 

And  tell  of  One  whose  power  hath  van 
quished  death ! 

Ah,  Easter-time  has  a  reproach  upon  it 

While  birds  are  slain  to  trim  a  woman's 
bonnet! 


PURPLE   ASTER. 

RAVELY  my  sweet  flower  resists 

Heat  of  August,  autumn  cold ; 

And  though  she  has  amethysts 


For  her  dower,  and  some  gold, 
Never  roadside  beggar  passed  her 
Without  nod  from  purple  aster. 

Dear  plebeian,  but  for  thee 
And  thy  lover,  golden-rod, 

Lonesomer  the  road  would  be 

Which  the  country  folk  must  plod ; 

And  each  little  maid  and  master 

Would  regret  thee,  purple  aster ! 

When  November  winds  blow  chill, 
And  the  fields  are  brown  and  sear, 

You  will  find  her,  cheerful  still, 
With  her  lover  standing  near, 

While  old  Winter  fast  and  faster 

Comes  to  claim  brave  purple  aster. 


AURORA  BOREALIS. 

HE     northern     cheek     of     the 

heavens, 

By  a  sudden  glory  kissed, 
Blushed  to  the  tint  of  roses, 

And  hid  in  an  amber  mist, 
And  through  the  northern  pathway, 

Trailing  her  robe  of  flame, 
The  queenly  Borealis 

In  her  dazzling  beauty  came  ! 

I  stood  and  watched  the  tilting 

Of  each  dainty,  rosy  lance, 
As  it  seemed  to  pierce  the  bosom 

Of  an  emerald  expanse ; 
And  I  thought  if  heaven's  gateway 

Is  so  very  fair  to  see, 
What  must  the  inner  glory 

Of  the  "many  mansions"  be? 


Aurora  Borealis.  93 

I  thought  of  the  "  Golden  City," 

Where  the  wondrous  lights  unfurl ; 
Of  its  sea  of  clearest  crystal, 

Of  its  gates,  —  each  one  a  pearl ; 
Thought,  till  the  glowing  splendor 

Had  quietly  passed  us  by, 
And  the  track  of  Aurora's  chariot 

Bleached  out  from  the  northern  sky ! 


MEXICO. 

ITHIN  thy  blue-domed  Garden 

of  Delight, 

Dwells   the   elusive    Spirit   of 
Content, 

And   makes  thy  people's  lot  benefi 
cent. 
With  thee  her  wings  forget  their  trick 

of  flight, 
And  brood  above  thy  dwellers  day  and 

night. 

For  thee  Euterpe  brings  her  blandish 
ment, 

And  Beauty  hath  her  cornucopia  spent. 
Thy  winds  are  sheathed  with  velvet,  and 

their  might 
Is  tempered  to  the  little  naked  child. 


Mexico.  95 

God  made  thee  for  the  old  and  shelter 
less, 
And  bids  fair  Nature  hide  her  moods 

morose. 

Thy  patios  with  violets  are  tiled, 
The  air  enfolds  thee  in  its  warm  caress, 
And  Summer  never  bids  thee  adios! 


WEAKNESS. 
;HAT  ills  escape  upon  the  world 


Through  the  loose  meshes  of 
a  pliant  will ! 

Weakness  is  an  ignoble  mistress ;  still, 
While  Passion  may  with  bolder  weapons 

slay, 
Insidious   Weakness    doth    hold    equal 

sway,  — 
For  with  such  drugs  she  does  men's 

senses  fill, 
They  sleep  upon  her  knees,  nor  dream 

of  ill; 

Then  Samson  has  the  old  sad  price  to 
pay. 


Weakness.  97 

From  Pilate's  hand  she  drew  the  sceptre 

down ; 
For  while  he  cried,  "  What  evil  hath 

He  done?" 
"  He    feared    the    people "    and    King 

Caesar's  frown 
More  than  the  anguish  of  the  Sinless 

One, 
And   Weakness    made    him    miss    the 

truest  fame 
That   ever   stooped  to  crown  a  ruler's 

name ! 


SOME  VIOLETS. 

EAR  friend,  I  give  thee  violets ; 

And  for  my  fee, 
The  fragrant  secret  of  thy  life 
Disclose  to  me. 


For  through  it,  like  a  guiding  thread, 

I  scent  the  rue, 
And  faintly  track  the  odorous  feet 

Of  heart's-ease  too. 

Reach  down  on  patient  cords  to  me 

Thy  brimming  cup 

Of  wise,   sweet   thoughts,  that   I    may 
drink, 

And  thus  toil  up 

To  where  thou  art,  so  meekly  high, 

So  far  away, 
I  can  but  kiss  my  eager  hands 

To  thee  to-day. 


Some  Violets.  99 

Or,  if  I  may  not  reach  so  high, 

Then  be  it  so ; 
If  I  may  sit  beside  thy  feet, 

'T  will  not  be  low. 

And,  listening  soft,  my  soul  may  catch 

In  some  far  sense 
The  tuneful  impulse  of  a  life 

Serene,  intense. 

Ah,  me !   I  do  but  spoil  my  work 

With  clumsy  phrase ; 
And  mar,  with  my  uncultured  speech, 

Where  I  would  praise. 

So  I  will  lay  my  heart's-ease  down 

At  thy  kind  feet ; 
Regretting  sore  their  broken  stems, 

Their  vanished  sweet, 

Yet  praying  that  their  faded  blue 

Some  type  may  be 
Of  the  fair  badge  my  heart  shall  wear 

Always  for  thee ! 


WE  ARE  UNFAITHFUL. 

F    man  could    rule,  his   love   of 

change  would  mar 
The  purple  dignity  that  wraps 
the  hills ; 

Pluck  out  from  the  blue  sky  some  per 
fect  star, 

And   set   it   elsewhere,   as   his    fancy 
wills : 

Train     the     gnarled     apple-tree     more 

straightly  up  ; 
Lift  violet's  head,  so  long  and  meekly 

bowed ; 

With  some  new  odor  fill  her  purple  cup, 
And  gild  the  rosy  fringes  of  a  cloud. 


We  are  Unfaithful.  101 

For,  mark !   last  year  I  loved  the  violet 

best, 

And  tied  her  tender  colors  in  my  hair ; 
To-day  I  wear  on  my  inconstant  breast 
A  crimson  rose,  and  count  her  just  as 
fair. 

We  are  unfaithful.     Only  God  is  true 
To  hold  secure  the  landmarks  of  the 

past, 
To  paint  year   after  year  the  harebell 

blue, 

And    in   the   same    sweet    mould    its 
shape  to  cast. 

Oh,  steadfast   Nature,  let    us   learn   of 

thee! 
Thou  canst  create  a  new  flower  at  thy 

will, 
And   yet   through    all   the   years   canst 

faithful  be 
To  the  sweet  pattern  of  a  daffodil. 


THE    BURIAL    OF    ABRAHAM 
LINCOLN* 

|E  mourn  for  him  whose  soul  on 

heights  divine 

Has  reached  the  stature  of  the 
undefiled, 

In  whom  a  judgment  ripe  and  honor  fine 
Were  blended  with   the  nature  of   a 

child; 
Whose  pen  with  patient  toil  and  godlike 

grace 
Picked     out     the     puzzled     knot    of 

slavery ; 

Unclasped  the  gyves  that  bound  a  hap 
less  race, 

And    dared   to  write  "  the    bondman 
shall  be  free." 

*  Written  by  request,  for  the  occasion  of 
the  depositing  of  Abraham  Lincoln's  remains 
in  the  tomb  at  Oak  Ridge  Cemetery,  Spring 
field,  111. 


The  Burial  of  Abraham  Lincoln.    103 

The  kind  humanities  that  graced  his  life, 
The   tenderness   which    through    his 

justice   shone ; 
The    sympathy    that    softened    human 

strife 
And    made  a  brother's   suffering  his 

own ; 

The  life  which  shadowed  forth  the  per 
fect  plan 

Of  heaven's  law  of  equity  and  right : 
Such  were  the  attributes,  and  such  the 

man 

Whom    death    has   hidden   from    our 
mortal  sight. 

His  deeds  move  Onward,  though  his  life 

is  done; 
His  words  still  sway  us  like  a  mighty 

host. 
"  Write    down,"    he   said,  "  my  humble 

name  as  one 

Whose  love  of  country  was  his  highest 
boast." 


io4    The  Burial  of  Abraham  Lincoln. 

O    man    of    men,    whose    name   we    all 

revere ! — 
The    dearest   name    in   Liberty's   fair 

crown !  — 

< 

Only  thy  corse  rests  in  these  chambers 

here; 

Death    cannot   touch    thy  honor  and 
renown ! 

Along  the  years  his  gentle  words  shall 

fall,  — 
"  With    malice    towards    none,   with 

charity  for  all ;  " 
And  men  shall  write  in  tears  upon  his 

grave, 

"  He  bound  the  nation,  and  unbound 
the  slave." 


CRITICISM. 


SONG-SPARROW    who   had 
her  choice  of  place 


PH 

1^.  *  S-r* .  _?/*  i-pt ,  «  * 

I  he  orchards  over, 


Espied  within  a  bare,  unsheltered  space 
A  tuft  of  clover; 

And  here,  almost  beneath  the  passers' 

feet, 

Her  nest  confided, 
While    robin,    with   a   trill   of   laughter 

sweet, 
Softly  derided. 

An    English    sparrow,    curious    at    her 

choice, 

Peeped  boldly  under, 
And    cried    out,    in    his    pert    plebeian 

voice, 
"  Oh,  what  a  blunder ! " 


io6  Criticism. 

But  when  the  roses  came,  I  sought  the 

nest 

Of  my  brown  sitter, 

And  heard,  beneath  her  patient  brood 
ing  breast, 
Young  sparrows  twitter. 

And  when  the  withered   roses   strewed 
the  ground, 

The  fields  were  ringing 
With  the  delicious  and  uncertain  sound 

Of  young  birds  singing. 

It  was  the  sparrows,  safely  fledged  !  and 
yet 

To  human  reason 
That  open  nest,  amid  such  dangers  set, 

Seemed  arrant  treason. 

And  while  these  birds,  serene  and  un 
afraid, 

As  in  a  tower, 
Dwelt  in  the  careless  nest  that  they  had 

made 
Beneath  a  flower, 


Criticism.  107 

A  wind  had  rent  the  sturdy  apple-tree, 

Where  robin  nested ; 
And    from  their  snug,   round   bed   her 
babies  three 

Were  rudely  wrested. 


WHITE  VIOLETS. 

E  sought  for  the  white  violet, 

My  little  love  and  I ; 
Among   the   pastures  cool  and 


wet, 

Our  feet  in  eager  quest  were  set 
The  dainty  bloom  to  spy. 

We  knew  where  purple  ones  and  blue 

Were  thick  as  stars  at  night; 
But  all  our  forest  journeys  through 
We  had  not  found  a  spot  where  grew 
A  violet  of  white. 

Like  some  sweet  nun,  ethereal  thin, 

You  'd  know  her  anywhere, 
With  snowy  wimple  folded  in 
About  her  pale  and  serious  chin, 
And  head  bent  as  in  prayer. 


White  l/iolets.  109 

In  firry  cloisters,  spicy  sweet, 
We  sought  our  pale-faced  nun. 

No  trace  was  here  of  her  light  feet; 

Only  a  spider,  trim  and  neat, 
Sat  in  the  door  and  spun. 

Where  the  May-apple  leaves  had  spread 

A  tent  of  shining  green, 
A  moth  in  his  gray  hammock  stayed, 
A  hermit  snail  sulked  in  the  shade, 

But  Violet  was  not  seen. 

The  snowy  star  of  Bethlehem 

Twinkled  beside  our  way; 
The  forest's  fern-embroidered  hem 
Glowed  with  red  lilies,  stem  on  stern : 

But  where  did  Violet  stay? 

"Why  seek  white  violets  alone, 

My  love,"  at  last  I  cried, 
"  When    banks   with    purple  ones    are 

strewn, 
Fit  for  the  cover  of  a  throne, 

And  coronet  beside?" 


no  WUte  Violets. 

"  Things  won,"  she  said,  "  with  little  care 

Are  seldom  coveted ; 
White  violets,  like  pearls,  are  rare, 
Like  amethysts  the  purple  are, 

I  choose  the  pearls,"  she  said. 

We  heard  the  insects'  drowsy  croon, 

Bees  in  the  thistles  slept ; 
The  wood-thrush  piped  his  liquid  tune, 
The  morn  led  up  to  sultry  noon, 

The  noon  to  evening  crept. 

We  found  not  one  white  violet ; 

We  know  not  where  they  grow. 
But  there  are  fairer  treasures  yet, 
Sometimes,  in  woods  and  hollows  wet, 

As  we  who  found  them  know. 


IN   PRISON. 

OD  pity  the  wretched  prisoners, 

In  their  lonely  cells  to-day; 
Whatever  the  sins  that  tripped 

them, 
God  pity  them,  still  I  say. 

Only  a  strip  of  sunshine, 

Cleft  by  rusty  bars ; 
Only  a  patch  of  azure, 

Only  a  cluster  ot  stars ; 
Only  a  barren  future 

To  starve  their  hope  upon  ; 
Only  stinging  memories 

Of  love  and  honor  gone; 
Only  scorn  from  women, 

Only  hate  from  men, 
Only  remorse  to  whisper 

Of  a  life  that  might  have  been. 


ii2  In  Prison. 

Once  they  were  little  children, 

And  perhaps  their  unstained  feet 
Were  led  by  a  gentle  mother 

Toward  the  golden  street; 
Therefore,  if  in  life's  forest 

They  since  have  lost  their  way, 
For  the  sake  of  her  who  loved  them, 

God  pity  them,  still  I  say. 

O  mothers,  gone  to  heaven ! 

With  earnest  heart  I  ask 
That  your  eyes  may  not  look  earthward 

On  the  failure  of  your  task ! 
For  even  in  those  mansions 

The  choking  tears  would  rise, 
Though  the  fairest  hand  in  heaven 

Should  wipe  them  from  your  eyes ! 

And  you,  who  judge  so  harshly, 
Are  you  sure  the  stumbling-stone 

That  tripped  the  feet  of  others 

Might  not  have  bruised  your  own? 


In  Prison.  113 

Are  you  sure  the  sad-faced  angel 
Who  writes  our  errors  down, 

Will  ascribe  to  you  more  honor 

Than  to  those  on  whom  you  frown? 

Or,  if  a  steadier  purpose 

Unto  your  life  is  given, 
A  stronger  will  to  conquer, 

A  smoother  path  to  heaven ; 
If,  when  temptations  meet  you, 

You  crush  them  with  a  smile ; 
If  you  can  chain  pale  passion 

And  keep  your  lips  from  guile,  — 

Then  bless  the  Hand  that  crowned  you, 

Remembering,  as  you  go, 
'T  was  not  your  own  endeavor 

That  shaped  your  nature  so ; 
And  sneer  not  at  the  weakness 

Which  made  a  brother  fall, 
For  the  hand  that  lifts  the  fallen 

God  loves  the  best  of  all ! 


ii4  In  Prison. 

And  pray  for  the  wretched  prisoners 

All  over  the  land  to-day, 
That  a  holy  Hand  in  pity 

May  wipe  their  guilt  away. 


OBSCURITY. 

IKE  jewels    hid    in   Ethiopian's 

breast 
The  forest  wears  its   orchids, 

and  the  sea 

Hath  richer  pearls  than  glow  in  any  mart ; 
Nature  despiseth  not  obscurity. 

She  paints  a   world  of    rainbow-tinted 

things 

Upon  the  curtains  of  her  solitudes ; 
And  gems  the  air  with  countless  flashing 

things, 

In  places  where   no  human  foot   in 
trudes. 

Nor    does    she    send   her   wood-thrush 

where  its  notes 

Will   win   the   noisy   plaudits  of  the 
street ; 


n6  Obscurity. 

Along  the  leafy  aisles  its  echoes  float, 
And  mingle  with  pine  odours  moist 
and  sweet. 

What  matter  that  no  ear  the  song  hath 

heard? 
That  no  applause  along  the  dim  woods 

ran? 

God  needed  just  the  music  of  this  bird 
To  round  the  perfect  octave  of  His 
plan. 


A  FLOWER  SERMON. 

FOUND,  within  a  churchyard 
gray, 

A  marigold  abloom  one  day, 
And  hotly  said,  "  Oh,  saucy  elf, 
Shame  on  thy  pert  and  graceless  self 
To  flaunt  thy  robes  of  yellow  bloom 
Among  the  shadows  of  the  tomb, 
And  o'er  the  faces  of  the  dead 
To  nod  thy  disrespectful  head ! 
There  is  no  fitness  in  thy  dress, 
Nor  art  thou  modest,  thus  to  press 
Thy  gaudy  presence  in  the  place 
Where  gladness  never  shows  its  face." 

The    startled     flower     replied :   "  What 

claim 

Hast  thou  to  judge  me  ?     Or  what  shame 
Should  burn  my  cheeks  because  I  wear 
This  yellow  dress,  which  is  my  share 
Of  Nature's  brightness,  given  to  grace 
The  sombre  shadows  of  this  place? 


n8  A  Flower  Sermon. 

I  cannot  harm  the  sleeping  dead 
Because  I  toss  my  golden  head ; 
'T  is  all  God  meant  for  me  to  do, 
To  nod  and  smile  the  summer  through. 
Nor  do  I  laugh  while  others  weep 
Through  any  malice,  but  to  keep 
God's  perfect  plan  for  my  small  life, 
Unmarred  by  dissonance  or  strife ; 
For  this  I  bloom  beside  a  grave, 
And  wear  the  color  that  he  gave." 

I  turned  my  flushing  face  away; 
Nor  will  I  try  another  day 
To  question  any  thought  or  plan 
That  God  designs  for  flower  or  man. 
Some    lives    are    blithe    their    journey 

through, 

While  others  early  find  the  rue. 
Whatever  color  God  hath  wrought 
Into  our  life  or  plan  or  thought, 
He  knows  the  best.     There  is  no  flaw 
Nor  dulness  in  God's  perfect  law ! 


THE   NEW  MESSAGE. 

F  ghosts  of  women  dead  a  cen 
tury 

Steal   back  to  earth, 
Then  verily  to-night  one  talked  to  me 
Upon  my  hearth. 

And  the  pathetic  minor  of  her  tones, 

Liquid  with  tears, 

Was  like  a  plaintive  murmur  from  far 
zones 

And  distant  years. 

"  Think  not  that  I  am  come  to  you,"  she 
said, 

"  This  hallowed  night 
To  gossip  of  the  secrets  of  the  dead 

Or  tell  their  plight. 


120  The  New  Message. 

"  I  could  not  sleep  ;    for  lo  !   the  Christ 
mas  bells 
A  new  tune  rang: 
1  New  birth  to  woman !  '  loud  the  paean 

swells 
In  rhythmic  clang. 

" '  New  birth  to  woman ! '   Once  no  right 

had  she 

To  choose  her  place ; 
Nor  place  had  she  save  as  man's  cour 
tesy 
Did  grant  her  grace. 

"  Sometimes,  by  beauty,  trick,  or  acci 
dent, 

Grim  fate  she  crossed ; 
But  when  from  her  obeisance  she  unbent, 

Her  power  was  lost. 

"  O  woman !    fitly   robed   at  last,    and 

crowned 
With  dignity; 


The  New  Message.  121 

Walking  with  lifted  head  your  chosen 

round, 
Unfettered,  free; 

"  The  barbarous  traditions  of  the  past 
Loosed  from  your  feet; 

Life's  richest  goblet  held  to  you  at  last, 
Brimming  and  sweet,  — 

"  Forget  not  those  for  whom  too  late, 
alas ! 

Dawn  flushed  the  sky, 
And  to  their  spirits  drain  a  silent  glass. 

Of  such  am  I. 

"  Hark  to  the  Christmas  bells  !     '  Good 
will  toward  men, 
Peace  on  the  earth  !  ' 
'And  unto  woman  !  '  —  chime  they  forth 

again  — 
'  New  birth  !     New  birth !  ' " 


1 2  2  The  New  Message. 

If  ghosts  of  women  dead  a  century 

Steal  back  to  earth, 

Then    this   same   hour   one   came    and 
talked  to  me 

Beside  my  hearth. 


CHRISTMAS  ROSES. 

GAVE  into  a  brown  and  tired 

hand 

A   stem    of  roses,  sweet    and 
creamy  white. 
I   know  the  bells  rang   merry  tunes 

that  night, 
For  it  was  Christmas-time    throughout 

the  land, 

And  all  the  skies  were  hung  with  lan 
terns  bright. 

The  brown  hand  held  my  roses  awk 
wardly  ; 

They  seemed  more  white  within  their 
dusky  vase ; 

The  pale  face  glowed  with  pleasure 
and  with  praise : 


124  Christmas  Roses. 

"  These    are    for    daintier    hands    than 

mine  !  "  cried  she ; 

"  Such  beauty  was  riot  fashioned  for 
my  gaze." 

Nay,  tired  one !     Think,  rather,  that  for 
you 

These  flowers  have  struggled  upward 
from  the  clay 

And  journeyed  on  their  patient,  leafy 

way 

Brimming   their   cups   with    light,    per 
fume,  and  dew, 

To  lay  them  in  your  palm  this  Christ 
mas  day. 


"AVERAGE"   PEOPLE. 

HE  genius  soars  far  to  the  foun 
tain 
That  feeds  the  snow-cap  in  the 

sky; 
But  though  our  wings  break  in  the 

flying, 
And  though  our  souls  faint  in  the 

trying, 

Our  flight  cannot  follow  so  high ; 
And    the    eagle    swoops    not   from   the 

mountain 
To  answer  the  ground-bird's  low  cry. 

The  world  has  a  gay  guerdon  ready 
To  hail  the  fleet  foot  in  the  race ; 
But  on  the  dull  highway  of  duty, 
Aloof    from    the    pomp    and    the 
beauty, 


i26  "Average"  People. 

The  stir  and  the  chance  of  the  chase, 
Are  toilers,  with  step  true  and  steady, 
Pursuing  their  wearisome  pace. 

False  prowess  and  noisy  insistence 
May  capture  the  garrulous  throng; 
But    the    "  average "    father     and 

brother, 
The      home-keeping     sister      and 

mother, 

Grown  gentle  and  patient  and  strong, 
Shall  learn  in  the  fast-nearing  distance 
Wherein     life's     awards     have    been 
wrong. 

Then  here  's  to  the  "  average"  people, 
The  makers  of  home  and  its  rest ! 
To   them    the   world    turns    for   a 

blessing 

When  life  its  hard  burdens  is  press 
ing, 

For  stay-at-home  hearts  are  the  best. 
Birds  build  if  they  will  in  the  steeple, 
But  safer  the  eaves  for  a  nest. 


MARCH. 

N  the  dark  silence  of  her  cham 
bers  low, 

March  works  out  sweeter  things 
than  mortals  know. 


Her  noiseless   looms  ply  on  with  busy 

care, 
Weaving  the  fine  cloth  that  the  flowers 

wear. 

She   sews  the    seams   in  violet's    queer 

hood, 
And    paints   the  sweet  arbutus    of   the 

wood. 

Out  of  a  bit  of  sky's  delicious  blue 
She  fashions  hyacinths,  and    harebells 
too; 


iz8  March, 

And  from  a  sunbeam  makes  a  cowslip 

fair, 
Or  spins  a  gown  for  daffodil  to  wear. 

She  pulls  the  cover  from  the  crocus  beds 
And  bids  the  sleepers  lift  their  drowsy 
heads. 

She  marshals  the  close  armies  of  the 

grass, 
And  polishes  their  green  blades  as  they 

pass. 

And  all  the  blossoms  of  the  fruit-trees 

sweet 
Are  piled  in  rosy  shells  about  her  feet. 

Within  her  great  alembic  she  distils 
The  dainty  odor  which  each  flower  fills. 

Nor  does  she  err,  and  give    to   migno 
nette 
The  perfume  which  belongs  to  violet. 


March.  129 

Nature  does  well  whatever  task  she  tries, 
Because  obedient.     Here  the  secret  lies. 

What  matter,  then,  that  wild  the  March 

winds  blow? 
Bear  patiently  her  lingering  frost  and 

snow ! 

For  all  the  sweet  beginnings  of  the 
spring 

Beneath  her  cold  brown  breast  lie  flut 
tering. 


DISPROVED. 

CANNOT  think  the  dead  come 

ever  back ; 
Else  thou,  my  mother,  wouldst 

not  calmly  lie 

Within  thy  grassy  tent,  but  swiftly  fly 
Back  through  the  shadowy  and  lonely 

track 
To  seek  the  child  who  does  thy  comfort 

lack. 
The  bliss  of  heaven  thou  wouldst  thy 

soul  deny, 
And,  though    so   weary,  all    its    rest 

put  by, 
Rather  than  loneliness  my  heart  should 

rack. 
Do  souls  return,  my  mother,  and  thy 

kiss 

Anoints  not  my  sad  eyes?     Come  back 
and  prove 


Disproved.  131 

How  deeper  than  the  grave  is  thy  dear 

love ! 
Never  till  now  didst  thou  the  pathway 

miss 

That  led  to  me.    Alas,  no  couriers  move 
From   heaven  to  earth !      Thine  ab 
sence  proveth  this. 


SAILING  AWAY. 

AILING  away  from  our  friendly 

shores, 
Passing  the   cloud-ships   here 

and  there, 

I  watch  the  dip  of  your  feathered  oars, 
Wise  little  mariners  of  the  air ! 

With  map  nor  guide-book  under  your 
wing, 

You  safely  travel  the  azure  track, 
And  reckon  the  days  from  fall  to  spring 

With  never  a  sign  of  an  almanac. 

As  I  watch  your  flight  to  the  summer- 
land, 

I  long  to  sail  with  your  merry  crew; 
My   caged   heart   flutters    beneath    my 

hand 
To  try  its  wings  in  the  upper  blue. 


Sailing  Away.  133 

But  I  have  no  chart  of  your  sun-lit 
shores ; 

And  my  heart  is  heavy,  it  cannot  fly. 
Dip,  dip,  dip  with  your  velvet  oars ; 

Happier  travellers  you  than  I ! 


IF  I  COULD   CHOOSE. 

WOULD  not   dare,  though  it 

•     were  offered  me, 
To  plan  my  lot  for  but  a  sin 
gle  day, 

So  sure  am  I  that  all  my  life  would  be 
Marked  with  a  blot  in  token  of  my 
sway. 

But  were   it   granted   me   this    day   to 

choose 
One   shining   bead   from  the  world's 

jewelled  string, 

Favor  and  fortune  I  would  quick  refuse 
To  grasp  a  richer  and   more   costly 
thing. 

With  this  brave  talisman  upon  my  breast, 
I  could  be  ruler  of  my  rebel  soul ; 

To  own  this  gem  is  to  command  the  rest : 
It  is  the  Kohinoor  called  Self-Control  I 


If  I  could  Choose.  135 

It  is  the  sesame  to  broad  estates, 

To    peaceful    slopes    and    mountains 

blue  and  fair ; 
Calm-browed  Content  beyond  its  border 

waits, 

And  even  Love  sits  in  the  sunshine 
there. 

No  sullen  faces  frown  upon  the  street, 
No   grated  windows,  no  grim  prison 

walls ; 

No  clanking  chains  are  bound  on  con 
vict's  feet, 

And    on    the    ear   no   angry   discord 
falls. 

My    life's    swift    river    widens    to    the 

sea, 
The   careless  babble  of  the  brook  is 

past; 

A  few  late  roses  blossom  still  for  me, 
But  spring  is  gone,  and  summer  can 
not  last. 


136  If  I  could  Choose. 

Had    I    begun    with     morning's     rosy 

strength 

To  seek  the  flower  that  on  life's  sum 
mit  grows, 
I    might    have   found    my   edelweis    at 

length, 

And    on    the    purple    heights    have 
gained  repose. 

Put  I  have  loitered,  and  the  hour  is  late; 

Worn  are  my  feet,  and  weary  is  my 

hand; 
I  can  but  push  ajar  the  massive  gate ; 

I  can  but  look  into  the  Beulah  land. 

But,  friends,  if  my  poor  love  could  have 

its  way, 
And  blossom  into  blessing  on   each 

soul, 
This  is  the  very  prayer  that  I   should 

pray: 

"  Grant  to  men's  lives  the  power  of 
self-control !  " 


GOOD-BY. 

O-MORROW   night,  when  the 

flush  has  fled 

From  the  beautiful  face  of  day, 
And  other  lovers  with  clinging  hands 

Under  my  lattices  stray ; 
I  shall  sit  in  the  dusk  alone, 
And  you  will  be  far  away. 

Perhaps  we  never  shall  meet  again 
Till  our  burdens  have  been  laid  down, 

And  we  have  passed  through  the  grave's 

dark  aisle, 
With  its  ceilings  so  low  and  brown, 

Into  the  warmth  of  the  Father's  smile, 
Or  the«shadow  of  his  frown. 


138  Good-By. 

And  should  I  reach  the  end  of  the  road 
Before  your  journey  is  done, 

I  will  lean  and  listen  beside  the  gate 
For  the  travellers,  one  by  one ; 

And  when  I  have  heard  your  foot- fall, 

love, 
My  heaven  will  have  begun ! 


"MY  CUP  RUNNETH   OVER." 

UST  for  to-day  may  I  not  sing 

For  gratitude  alone, 
Nor    interrupt    my   praise   to 

bring 
Petitions  to  the  throne? 

Just  for  to-day  may  I  not  eat 
From  yesterday's  full  store? 

While  gathered  manna  still  is  sweet, 
Shall  I  entreat  for  more? 

And  yet,  dear  Lord,  I  cannot  live 
One  hour  without  thy  care ; 

So  in  the  cup  of  thanks  I  give 
Petition,  too,  must  share. 


140       "My  Cup  Runneth  Over." 

I  am  too  ignorant  to  name 
The  blessings  best  for  me ; 

The  wisest  prayer  my  lips  can  frame 
Is  simpleness  to  thee. 

Yet    take,    O    God,    and    Friend    of 
friends, 

My  chalice,  poor  and  rude, 
Wherein  one  strong  petition  blends,  — 

Give  me  more  gratitude  ! 


IN   EXTREMIS. 

HILE  children  lean  their  cheeks 

in  drowsy  prayer 
Against  their  mother's  knees, 
and  all  the  air 
Is  sweet  with  vesper  bell ; 
See  the  spent  day  against   the   sunset 

stand, 
Her  smouldering  torch  down-drooping 

from  her  hand 
In  token  of  farewell. 

With  vague  regret  I  watch  each  ebbing 

grace. 
Come,  twilight,  gentle  nun,  before  her 

face 


142  In  Extremis. 

Shall  cold  and  ashen  be ; 
Fold  thy  gray  veil  above  her  as  she  lies, 
And   sprinkle    her   with    incense    from 
thine  eyes: 

She  hath  been  kind  to  me. 


MELANCHOLY  DAYS. 

HE  vine  upon  the  old  church- 
wall 

Has  dropped  its  scarlet  gown, 
And  stands,  a  discrowned  cardinal, 
In  a  monk's  garb  of  brown. 

Along  each  maple-bordered  lane, 
Which  Autumn  late  has  trod, 

Her  wounded  feet  have  left  a  stain 
On  every  leaf  and  sod. 

And  here,  where  its  own  spicy  scent 

ItsJiiding  has  betrayed, 
Safe  from  the  frost  within  the  tent 

Some  tattered  leaves  have  made, 


144  Melancholy  Days. 

Is  one  belated  pink  as  pale 
As  some  meek  convent  nun, 

Whose  color  fades  behind  her  veil 
For  want  of  wind  and  sun. 

The  golden-rod,  a  spendthrift  gay, 
Who  poured  for  asking  hands 

Palms-full  of  gold,  himself  to-day 
Rusty  and  ragged  stands ! 

And   now,  like   doves  with   cold,  gray 
breasts, 

The  snow-flakes  flutter  by, 
And  brood  within  the  empty  nests 

Where  young  birds  used  to  lie. 

Oh,  who  would  guess  that  skies  so  cold 
Hold  in  their  cloaks  of  gray 

The  perfect  blue  and  radiant  gold 
Of  Spring's  delicious  May? 


SNOWFLAKES. 

N   their  errand  of  purity  softly 

they  go, 

A  million  fair  doves  from  the 
clouds  swooping  low ! 
They  light  in  my  window,  and  brood  on 

my  sill, 

With  milky-white  pinions  down-folded 
and  still. 

They  tenderly  flutter   through   by-way 

and  street, 
And    fold    their  wings  over  each  stain 

that  they  meet; 
Until   all   the    hedges,    so    ragged    and 

bare, 
Seem   dressed    for  a  bridal  resplendent 

and  fair. 


146  Snowflakes. 

Our  little  brown  cottage  is  battered  and 

worn, 
Its   hinges   are   rusty,   its   shutters   are 

torn ; 
But  this  morning  the  raggedest  roof  in 

the  town 
Is    shingled   all   over  with   feathers   of 

down ! 

0  doves,  as   you    light   upon   meadow 

and  plain 

1  wish  you  could  cover  man's  weakness 

and  stain ! 

Yes,  I  wish  and  I  wish  that  the  fast- 
falling  snow 

Could  brood  with  its  pinions  our  faults 
here  below! 


THE    RAIN. 

HE  brooks  leaped  up  to  catch  it, 
And  the    breezes    held   their 

breath ; 
The  lilies  sprang  up  boldly, 

And  shook  their  heads  at  death. 
The  roses  blushed  to  crimson 

At  the  kisses  of  the  rain ; 
And  the  sun  looked  out  and  saw  it 
With  a  flush  of  jealous  pain. 

The  thirsty  little  river, 

Through  the  faded  grass  that  led, 
Began  to  flash  and  sparkle 

Like  a  chain  of  silver  thread. 
It  tinkled  through  the  meadow 

Where  the  unraked  clover  lay, 
Lifting  its  rosy  blossoms, 

As  the  rain-king  passed  that  way. 


148  The  Rain. 

It  left  its  fragrant  blessing 

Along  the  dingy  street; 
It  cooled  the  heated  pavement 

For  the  tread  of  tired  feet ; 
It  stole  within  the  chamber 

Where  a  sick  one  longed  for  death, 
And  filled  the  slender  nostrils 

With  its  life-giving  breath. 

Upon  the  fluttering  pulses 

It  laid  a  wondrous  calm, 
And  on  the  quivering  eyelids 

It  poured  a  slumberous  balm. 
It  drew  from  the  hot  forehead 

The  burning  darts  of  pain, 
And  tired  watchers  slumbered, 

Lulled  by  its  soft  refrain. 


A   POMPEIAN   PREACHER. 

EAR,     dainty     little     "  Maiden 

Hair," 
Whose    slender    figure,    trim 

and  fair, 

Apparelled  in  the  softest  green, 
Seems  fit  for  court  of  faerie  queen, 

I  marvel  much  that  without  fear 
Your  tender  life  finds  shelter  here, 
Where  silence,  death,  and  grim  decay 
Stalk  like  pale  phantoms  day  by  day ! 

No  little  child  with  dancing  feet 
Embroiders,  by  its  presence  sweet, 
A  thread  of  grace  within  the  gloom 
That  curtains  every  silent  room. 


150  A  Pompeian  Preacher. 

The  sunshine,  with  its  soft,  warm  feet, 
Shrinks  back  from  the  unfriendly  street, 
And  God's  free  light  steals  through  the 

doors, 
And  shivers  on  the  marble  floors. 


The  timid  lizard  noiseless  glides, 
The  slothful  snail  in  calm  abides ; 
But  nothing  that  is  fresh  or  fair 
Dwells   here  save   thee,  dear  "  Maiden 
Hair!" 

The  place  where  thou  dost  choose  to  be 
Was  once  a  hall  of  equity ; 
A  court,  where  Justice,  stern  and  cold, 
Untouched  by  Mercy,  ruled  of  old. 

Too  delicate  art  thou,  and  fair, 
To  dwell  in  such  a  chilling  air; 
And  yet,  within  these  ruins  gray, 
Thou  livest  thy  perfect  life  to-day. 


A  Pompeian  Preacher.          151 

Thou  art  a  preacher,  sweet  and  good, 
And   this    low    niche  where   thou    hast 

stood, 

Thy  pulpit,  from  whose  tiny  walls 
A  sermon,  quaint  and  earnest,  falls. 

O  patient  lives  that  sunless  are, 
From  whom  bright  fortune  stands  afar ! 
Ye  came  not  to  your  present  state 
By  any  careless  chance ;  but  Fate, 

Whose  name  is  God,  hath  planned  it  so, 
With  kinder  forethought  than  we  know ! 
And  if  athwart  thy  web  of  gray, 
Thou  runnest  no  brightness  day  by  day, 

Be  sure  thou  hast  not  wrought  so  well 
As  this  shy  flower,  whose  name  I  tell,  — 
This  dweller  in  Pompeian  air, — 
My  little  preacher,  "  Maiden  Hair ! " 


EXPIATION. 

DEATH  !    we  call  thee  tyrant 

in  our  blindness, 
And  yet  thou  showest  us  full 
gentle  ways; 

And  teachest  far  more  charity  and  kind 
ness 

Than  the   gay  flatterer,   Life,  whom 
most  we  praise ! 

The    sword   which   we   had    bared    for 

angry  smiting 
Thou  hidest  in  a  sheath  of  flowers,  O 

Death ! 
And  wrongs  we   fancied   needed    stern 

requiting 

Fade  out  like  morning  mists  at  thy 
chaste  breath. 


Expiation.  153 

Before  some  vanished  friend  we  swing 

our  censer, 
And  burn  our  candles  at  her  empty 

shrine; 
As  if  for  past  neglect  to  recompense 

her, 

Or  memory  to   drug  with   perfumes 
fine. 


We  wound  the  living  heart,  yet  clip  the 

briers 
From  roses  that  we  lay  in  pulseless 

hands ; 
We  build   for  frozen  hearts   our   tardy 

fires, 

And  pour  love's  chalice  upon  grave 
yard  sands. 

*T  was  ever  thus.      Men  scourged  the 

living  Saviour, 

And  plaited  thorns  among  His  holy 
hair ; 


154  Expiation. 

Then  sought  to  expiate  their  mad  be 
havior 

By   climbing   on    their    knees    some 
sacred  stair. 


Life  hath  one  path  to  heights  of  expi 
ation, 
Where  souls  stung  by  remorse  may 

gather  balm; 

But  by  no  single  bound  or  swift  trans 
lation 

May  eager  pilgrims  reach  their  purple 
calm. 

The  debt  thou  ovvest  the  dead,  pay  to 

the  living; 

For  every  guilt-spot  on  thy  memory 
Drop  into  some  sad   hand  that   needs 

thy  giving 

A    shining    bead    from    love's    rich 
rosary. 


Expiation.  155 

Haste,  if  the  debt  be  thine,  for  time  is 

pressing ! 
Soon  must  the  beads  upon  thy  thread 

be  spent, 
And  thou  set  down  thy  cup  of  dole  and 

blessing 

To  pass  within  the  curtain  of  Death's 
tent. 


WHAT  WILL  IT  MATTER? 

HAT   will   it  matter  in  a  little 

while 

That  for  a  day 
We  met  and  gave  a  word,  a  touch,  a 

smile, 
Upon  the  way? 

What  will  it  matter  whether  hearts  were 

brave, 

And  lives  were  true; 
That    you    gave    me    the   sympathy   I 

crave, 
As  I  gave  you? 

These  trifles,  —  can  it  be  they  make  or 

mar 

A  human  life? 
Are  souls  as  lightly  swayed  as  rushes 

are, 
By  love,  or  strife? 


What  Will  it  Matter?         157 

Yea,  yea !  a  look  the  fainting  heart  may 

break, 

Or  make  it  whole : 
And   just  one  word,  if  said  for  love's 

sweet  sake, 
May  save  a  soul ! 


YOUR    BIRTHDAY. 

HIS  is  the  day  my  friend  was 

born  to  me  !  " 
I  cried  this  morning    with  a 

thrill  and  start ; 

"  O  birthday  bells,  ring  out  right  merrily, 
And    hang    your    banners    out,    my 

happy  heart! 
It  matters  not  what  the  storm-signals 

say,— 
It  is  fair  weather  in  my  soul  to-day !  " 

Not  like  all  other  days  is  this,  O  friend, 
And   I  would    make    some    grateful, 

glad  ado; 
What  signal  message  can  I  straightway 

send 

To  prove  I  consecrate  the  hours  to 
you? 


Your  Birthday.  159 

I    would    salute    each   silent,    shadowy 

mast 
Of  your  good  years  as  they  go  sailing 

past. 

What  have  they  brought  to  you,  these 

phantom  ships? 
Some  silver  dust,  to  sprinkle  on  the 

hair? 

A  faded  rose,  to  lay  upon  the  lips? 
Some  shining  tears?    A  green  grave 

here  and  there? 
A  jagged    cross?     A  tired    brain   and 

heart? 
Ah,  friend,  are  these  of  thy  rich  freight 

a  part? 

Or   are  they  pirate   ships  whose  dark 

offence 

Is  stealing  from  us  youth  so  fair  and 
good? 

The  "  sweet  first  time "  of  glad  expe 
rience 


160  Your  Birthday. 

Of  hope,  and  dewy  love,  and  parent 
hood? 

Is  it  for  this  their  misty  sails  unfurl, 
Just  to  make  plunder  of  our  gold  and 
pearl? 

Nay,  nay !    if  so,  more  fit  were  funeral 

knells 
And  wreaths   of  cypress,  —  one    for 

each  dead  year,  — 
Than  the  sweet  jangle  of  the  joyous 

bells, 
The  glad  "  God  bless  you  !  "  and  the 

birthday  cheer. 
God  guides  the  years,  and  freights  them 

as  is  best; 
Let  us  have  patience  till  we  know  the 

rest. 

Ah,  how  like  little  children  we  are  led 
Up   to    the   threshold    of  the  future 

years, 
To  every  waiting  sorrow  blindfolded, 


Your  Birthday.  161 

And  all  unconscious  of  to-morrow's 

tears ! 
And  when  to-morrow  comes,  we  find  it 

still 
Holds  just  the   strength   sufficient   for 

its  ill! 

O  gentle  Trust !  if  to  possess  thy  grace 
Needed  long  journeys  to  some  ancient 

shrine, 
Though  faint  and  weary,  we  would  seek 

the  place 
From  rosy  dawn   till  midnight  stars 

should  shine ! 
But  they  who  find  thy  presence  know 

full  well 
That   in   no   far-off  country  dost   thou 

dwell. 

Oh,  what  can  not  her  gentle  presence 

do? 

It    is    a    flower    upon    sick    pillows 
thrown ; 

ii 


1 62  Your  Birthday. 

The  rose  that  hides  the  rankling  thorn 

from  view; 
The   velvet    moss    upon    old   towers 

grown. 

It  is  a  box  of  ointment  rare  and  sweet, 
Which  we  may  break   upon  the  Holy 

feet. 

And    now,    dear    friend,    I    think  you 

understand, 
That  if  to-day  some  happy  prayer  of 

mine 
Could  bring  a  white  gift  fluttering  to 

your  hand, 
I  would  not  ask  for  things  that  flash 

and  shine,  — 
But    that    upon    your    threshold    God 

might  lay 
This    flower   of    trust    to    crown    your 

natal  day. 


EASTER  DAY. 

SAD,  sad  soul,  fling  wide  your 

doors, 
And  make  your  windows  cur- 

tainless ; 

Strew  odours  on  your  silent  floors, 
And  all  your  walls  with  lilies  dress  ! 

Throw  open  every  sombre  place ; 

Roll  every  hindering  stone  away; 
Let  Easter  sunshine  gild  your  face, 

And  bless  you  with  its  warmth  to-day ! 

Let  friends  renew  each  bygone  hour ; 

Let  children  fling  the  world  a  kiss ; 
And  every  hand  tie  in  some  flower, 

To  crown  a  day  so  good  as  this ! 


1 64  Easter  Day. 

And  whether  skies  are  sad  or  clear, 
We  '11  give  the  day  to  joy  and  song ; 

For  since  the  Christ  is  surely  here, 
All  things  are  right,  and   naught  is 


wrong 


O  BELLS  IN  THE  STEEPLE. 

BELLS  in  the  steeple, 

Ring  out  to  all  people 
That   Christ  has  arisen,  —  that 

Jesus  is  here ! 

Touch  heaven's  blue  ceiling 
With  your  happy  pealing ; 
O  bells  in  the  steeple,  ring  out  full  and 
clear ! 

O  soft  April  showers, 
Call  out  the  young  flowers, 
Touch  each  little  sleeper,  and   bid  her 

obey; 

Set  daffodils  blowing, 
And  fresh  grasses  growing, 
To   thrill   the   old   world   on   this   new 
Easter-day ! 


1 66          0  Bells  in  the  Steeple. 

O  lilies  so  stately,  — 
Like  maids  tall  and  shapely, — 
Christ  loved  you,   and  talked   of  your 

beauty  of  old ; 
Stand  up  in  your  places, 
And  bend  your  white  faces, 
While  swinging  before  Him  your  censers 
of  gold ! 

O  violets  tender, 
Your  shy  tribute  render  ! 
Tie   round   your   wet   faces    your    soft 

hoods  of  blue ; 
And  carry  your  sweetness, 
Your  dainty  completeness, 
To   some   tired   hand    that   is    longing 
for  you. 

O  velvet-bloomed  willows, 
Go  comfort  sick  pillows 
With  visions  of  meadow-lands,  peace 
ful  and  brown ! 


0  Bells  in  the  Steeple.          167 

The  breath  of  Spring  lingers 
Within  your  cold  fingers, 
And  the  brook's  song  is  caught  in  your 
fringes  of  down. 

O  world,  bowed  and  broken 
With  anguish  unspoken, 
Take  heart  and  be  glad,  for  the  Lord  is 

not  dead ! 

On  some  bright  to-morrow, 
Your  black  cloud  of  sorrow 
Will   break  in  a  sweet  rain  of  joy  on 
your  head. 

O  bells  in  the  steeple, 
Ring  out  to  all  people 
That  Christ  has  arisen, —  that  Jesus  is 

here ! 

Touch  heaven's  blue  ceiling 
With  your  happy  pealing; 
O  bells  in  the  steeple,  ring  out  full  and 
clear ! 


IN   SILENCE. 

S   loving  friends  sit  sometimes 

hand  in  hand, 

Nor  mar  with  sound  the  sweet 
speech  of  their  eyes ; 
So  in  soft  silence  let  us  oftener  kneel, 
Nor    try   with   words   to    make    God 

understand. 
Longing  is  prayer;   upon  its  wings  we 

rise 

To  where  the  airs  of  heaven  around 
us  steal. 


MY    MOTHER. 

The  sweetest  face  in  all  the  world  to  me, 
Set  in  a  frame  of  shining  silver  hair, 

With  eyes  whose  language  is  fidelity  : 

This  is  my  mother.     Is  she  not  most  fair? 

Ten  little  heads  have  found  their  sweetest  rest 
Upon  the  pillow  of  her  loving  breast : 

The  world  is  wide ;  yet  nowhere  does  it  keep 
So  safe  a  haven,  so  secure  a  rest. 

'TYf  counted  something  great  to  be  a  queen, 
And  bend  a  kingdom  to  a  woman"1*  will. 

To  be  a  mother  such  as  mine,  I  ween, 
Is  something  better  and  more  noble  still. 


0  mother  !  in  the  changeful  years  now  flown, 
Since,  as  a  child,  I  leaned  upon  your  knee, 

Life  has  not  brought  to  me,  nor  fortune  shown, 
Such  tender  love .'  such  yearning  sympathy ! 

Let  fortune  smile  or  frown,  whichever  she  will ; 
It  matters  not,  I  scorn  her  fickle  ways  > 

1  never  shall  be  quite  bereft  until 

I  lose  my  mother's  honest  blame  and  praise! 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

SHE  CAME  TO  ME 9 

THE  BABY  OVER  THE  WAY u 

FOUR 14 

ELIZABETH 17 

A  LITTLE  PILLOW 18 

"LOST  —  A  GIRL" 20 

MY  BABY'S  MOUTH 22 

NESTS 24 

THE  CHILD  THAT  BELONGS  TO  ME     ...  27 

IN  THE  DOOR 30 

TIRED  MOTHERS 32 

THE  SANTA  CLAUS  STORY    35 

COMPENSATION 38 

Two  VALENTINES 42 

JOE'S  MERCIES 47 

MY  LITTLE  BOY 51 

WHAT  CAN  I  DO? 55 

WHO  HATH  MADE  THEM  TO  DIFFER  •     .     •  57 

PAPA'S  BIRTHDAY     .     .  60 


•»  Contents, 

PAGE 

THE  LOST  CHRISTMAS 61 

A  SWEET  OLD  LEGEND 65 

PLOUGHED  UNDER 68 

WAITING 70 

IN  VANITY  FAIR 73 

IF 77 

BUDGE,  TOM,  AND  HONEST  JOE  ....  80 
IN  MEMORY  OF  MR.  CROWLEY  OF  CENTRAL 

PARK 85 

LININGS 88 

A  PRAYER 91 

A  LITTLE  CYNIC 93 

CHRISTMAS  EVE 98 

JAMIE'S  PRAYER 101 

SHOCKING 103 

THE  SCARECROW 106 

IF  WE  KNEW 108 

A  LITTLE  ROBBER 1 1 1 

"  SUFFER  LITTLE  CHILDREN  TO  COME  UNTO 

ME" 113 

"  A  LITTLE  CHILD  SHALL  LEAD  THEM  "  .  115 

OUR  BOBBY  WAS  PINCHING  THE  KITTEN  .  120 

HE  KNOWS  BEST 123 

COMFORT 126 

A  SUBPCENA 128 

DEPARTING  DAY 130 


SHE  CAME   TO   ME. 

with    the    rustle    of    strange 

wings, 

Not  as  an  angel  garmented ; 
No  aureole  shone  round  her  head, 
She  did  not  speak  of  heavenly  things. 

She  came  and  stood  beside  my  knee, 

Leaning  upon  it  as  of  old; 

Until  my  sorrow,  fold  on  fold, 
Like  an  old  garment  fell  from  me. 

The  very  frock  she  used  to  wear, 

The  lace  about  her  sweet,  round  wrist ; 
The  warm  moist  hand  that  I  had  kissed  ; 

The  wayward  trick  of  the  bright  hair. 


io  She  Came  to  Me. 

That  on  her  lifted  forehead  fell,  — 
I  saw  it  all  in  rapt  surprise, 
As  smiling  upward  with  her  eyes 

She  said,  "  1  'm  all  well  now —  all  well." 

O  little  queen,  whose  realm  on  earth 
In  ruin  lies  !  leave  not  the  road 
Between  thy  world  and  ours  untrod  ; 

Come  sometimes  back  to  the  old  hearth  ! 

We  will  not  bar  the  chamber  door, 
To  hinder  thy  departing  feet : 
We  know  thou  canst  not  tarry,  Sweet, 

But  come,  O  come  to  us  once  more  ! 


THE   BABY   OVER  THE  WAY. 

CROSS  in  my  neighbor's  window, 
With  its  folds  of  satin  and  lace, 
I  see,  with  its  crown  of  ringlets, 
A  baby's  innocent  face. 
The  throng  in  the  street  look  upward, 

And  every  one,  grave  or  gay, 
Has  a  nod  and  a  smile  for  the  baby, 
In  the  mansion  over  the  way. 

Just  here  in  my  cottage  window, 

His  chin  in  his  dimpled  hands, 
And  a  patch  on  his  faded  apron, 

The  child  that  I  live  for  stands. 
He  has  kept  my  heart  from  breaking 

For  many  a  weary  day ; 
And  his  face  is  as  pure  and  handsome 

As  the  baby's  over  the  way. 


2  The  Baby  over  the  Way. 

Sometimes,  when  we  sit  together, 

My  grave  little  man  of  three, 
Sore  vexes  me  with  the  question, 

"  Does  God  up  in  Heaven  like  me?  " 
And  I  say,  "  Yes,  yes,  my  darling," 

Though  I  almost  answer  "  Nay  "  : 
As  I  see  the  nursery  candles, 

In  the  mansion  over  the  way. 

And  oft  when  I  draw  the  stocking 

From  his  little  tired  feet, 
And  loosen  the  clumsy  garments 

From  his  limbs  so  round  and  sweet, 
I  grow  too  bitter  for  singing, 

My  heart  too  heavy  to  pray, 
As  I  think  of  the  dainty  raiment 

Of  the  baby  over  the  way. 

Oh  God  in  Heaven  forgive  me 
For  all  I  have  thought  and  said ! 

My  envious  heart  is  humbled  : 
My  neighbor's  baby  is  dead  ! 


The  Baby  over  the  Way.  13 

I  saw  the  little  white  coffin 
As  they  carried  it  out  to-day, 

And  the  heart  of  a  mother's  is  breaking 
In  the  mansion  over  the  way! 

The  light  is  fair  in  my  window, 

The  flowers  bloom  at  my  door; 
My  boy  is  chasing  the  sunbeams 

That  dance  on  the  cottage  floor. 
The  roses  of  health  are  crowning 

My  darling's  forehead  to-day ; 
But  the  baby  is  gone  from  the  window 

Of  the  mansion  over  the  way ! 


FOUR.  - 

H,  wind  of  the  sweet  May  morning  ! 

Tell  me  the  rarest  thing, 
The  fittest  for  birthday  token, 
That  your  rosy  hands  can  bring. 
Oh,  army  of  loving  mothers, 

Lend  me  your  counsel,  pray, 
And  tell  me  a  gift  for  a  darling 
Who  is  four  years  old  to-day ! 

I  have  hunted  the  clover  meadow 

And  the  blossoming  orchards  through 
For  a  bit  of  the  robin's  crimson, 

Or  the  jay-bird's  dainty  blue; 
But  robin,  at  home  with  her  babies, 

Was  having  a  holiday, 
And  when  I  made  love  to  the  blue-bird, 

She  whistled  and  fluttered  away. 


ELIZABETH. 

CANNOT  tell 

How  it  befell  • 
As  you  came  sailing  straight 

to  me, 

That  no  sweet  hail, 
Nor  rustling  sail 
Proclaimed  my  coming  argosy. 

Yet  every  day 

Upon  its  way 
Your  boat  was  speeding  sure  and  fast ; 

Until  my  eyes 

With  glad  surprise 
Beheld  and  welcomed  you  at  last. 

I  cannot  see 

How  it  could  be 
I  saw  no  signal  from  your  hand ; 

Yet  this  I  know, 

With  happy  glow, 
Your  boat  to-day  is  at  my  strand. 


A   LITTLE   PILLOW. 

ITTLE  pillow,  do  you  think, 

With  your  frills  and  bows  of  pink, 
You  can  faithful  be  and  true, 
To  the  trust  I  give  to  you  ? 
In  your  laces,  here  and  there, 
I  have  stitched  a  silent  prayer 
For  the  little  child,  whose  face 
Soon  will  give  a  needed  grace 
To  the  work  my  hands  have  wrought 
With  full  many  a  tender  thought. 

Underneath  each  knot  of  pink 
Hides  a  sleepy  elf,  I  think, 
Who,  with  tricks  so  sly  and  wise, 
Fastens  down  the  baby's  eyes ; 
Wraps  him  round  from  brow  to  feet 
With  a  rest  so  soft  and  sweet, 


A  Little  Pillow.  19 

That  he  cries  in  grieved  surprise, 
When  he  opens  wide  his  eyes, 
Just  because  he  cannot  keep 
All  the  treasures  of  his  sleep  ! 

To  each  feather  soft  and  white 

I  have  whispered  dreams  so  light, 

That  the  baby's  sleep  will  be 

Full  of  peace  and  purity. 

What  though  velvet  cheek  and  lips, 

With  their  rosiness  eclipse 

Every  touch  of  puny  skill, 

I  have  wrought  with  loving  will? 

How  could  anything  compare 

With  a  baby  fresh  and  fair? 

How  could  God's  work  pure  and  fine  ; 

Ever  harmonize  with  mine? 

Little  pillow  do  you  think, 

With  your  frills  and  bows  of  pink 

You  can  faithful  be  and  true 

To  the  trust  I  give  to  you  ? 


''LOST— A  GIRL." 

H,  say !  have  you  seen  my  Alice 

Anywhere  on  Life's  street, 
Among  the  army  of  children 
Everywhere  that  you  meet? 
Her  hair  was  in  yellow  tangles, 

There  were  prints  of  sweets  on  her  face, 
She  spoke  in  a  broken  language, 
And  lisped  with  a  child's  rare  grace. 

Has  nobody  seen  this  hoyden, 

This  queer  little  girl  in  blue, 
With  a  rent  in  her  wee  white  apron 

And  a  gap  in  each  scarlet  shoe? 
Her  shoe-strings  were  always  dangling, 

And  her  stockings  sure  to  be 
Loosed  and  showing  the  dimples 

Set  in  each  rosy  knee. 


"Lost  —  A  Girl."  21 

If  angels  had  stolen  our  Alice 

Away  from. her  life  of  play; 
If  under  a  cover  of  daisies 

We  had  hidden  our  girl  away; 
If  I  could  know  she  had  wandered 

The  Heavenly  gateway  through, 
I  should  think  some  day  to  find  her, 

My  little  daughter  in  blue. 

The  birds  have  learned  to  answer 

When  her  name  I  sadly  call, 
But  the  voice  of  my  little  truant 

Is  silent,  in  room  and  hall. 
I  see  a  beautiful  woman 

With  my  grandchild  at  her  knee, 
But  my  little  heedless  Alice 

Will  never  come  back  to  me ! 


MY  BABY'S  MOUTH. 

HE  had   not  compassed  much   of 

human  speech 
With  that  small  mouth,  like  two 

rose-petals  curled ; 
But  the  short  octave  that  her  tongue  could 

reach, 
Out-sweetened  all  the  music  in  the  world. 

Yet  when  my  child  was  with  me  every  day, 

I  wore  her  heedlessly  upon  my  breast, — 

My    tender    flower  !  —  It    is    our   human 

way; 

We  mothers  are  too  thoughtless  at  the 
best. 

For  had  some  angel  stooped  from  heaven 

to  touch 

With    that   same   tenderness    my    brow 
and  hair, 


My  Baby's  Mouth.  23 

I  should  have  thrilled  and  trembled  over 
much, 
And  set  some  consecrated  signet  there. 

I  seal  it  now,  God  and  the  angels  know ! 
And  on  the  strength  of  every  slighted 

kiss 

I  will  drink  humbly  my  full  cup  of  woe, 
Nor  grudge  the  price  for  my  neglected 
bliss. 

0  world,  you  nothing  hold  that  I  regret : 

I  covet  neither  honors,  wealth,  nor  place  ; 

1  want   my  baby's  mouth  all   sweet  and 

wet, 
Rubbing  its  dew  against  my  lonely  face  ! 


NESTS. 

KNOW    where    meadow-grasses 

rank  and  high 
A  cradle  cover, 
Because  two  bobolinks  with  tell-tale  cry 
Above  them  hover. 

Some    mullein   leaves   beside  my   garden 
wall 

Grow  unmolested ; 
And  under  their  pale  velvet  parasol 

Sparrows  have  nested. 

An  oriole  toiled  on  from  day  to  day  — 
The  cunning  weaver !  — 

Tying  her  hammock  to  that  leafy  spray 
Above  the  river. 


Nests.  25 

No  wingless  thief  can  climb  that  elm's  frail 
stair ;  . 

Nor  guest  unbidden 
Can  reach  the  snug,  aerial  chamber  where 

Her  eggs  are  hidden. 

A  marsh-wren's  cunning  hermitage  I  see, 

As  my  boat  passes, 
Moored  to  the  green  stems  of  a  fleur-de-lis 

With  strong  sea  grasses. 

And  stay !  I  know  another  pretty  nest 

Of  braided  willow, 

With    dainty    lace,    and   knots    of   ribbon 
drest, 

And  feather  pillow. 

And  just  one  bird,  with  moist  and  downy 

head, 

Herein  reposes ; 
He    has  no  wings,  —  his  shoulders  grow 

instead 
Dimples  and  roses ! 


26  Nests. 

You  have  a  nest  and  little  wingless  bird 

«      At  your  house,  may  be; 
Of    course    you    know    without    another 

word 
I  mean  —  a  baby ! 


THE   CHILD   THAT  BELONGS  TO   ME. 

jO  pure  is  my  child,  that  I  dare  to 

say 

His  Maker  would  not  despise 
To  color  the  sky  on  some  rare  June  day 
From  the  blue  in  his  handsome  eyes ; 
And  I  am  as  proud  as  mother  can  be 
Of  this  beautiful  boy  that  belongs  to  me  ! 

Sometimes  when  we  walk  where  the  lily 

blows, 

She  frowns  with  a  sullen  grace ; 
The  gentle  violet  jealous  grows 

When    my    little    one    breathes    in    her 

face ; 

And  even  the  rose  bends  courteously 
To  the  beautiful  boy  that  belongs  to  me. 


28        The  Child  that  belongs  to  Me. 

His  voice  is  as  clear  and  sweet  as  the  bell 

That  swings  in  the  robin's  throat ; 
I  have  asked  him  oft,  but  he  cannot  tell 

Wherever  he  caught  its  note ; 
And  where  is  the  bird  more  happy  and 

free 

Than  the  beautiful   boy  that   belongs  to 
me ! 

Whenever  I  go  to  the  market-place 

I  carry  him  proud  and  high, 
That  all  may  catch  a  glimpse  of  his  face 

Before  we  have  passed  them  by ; 
So  eager  am  I  that  the  world  shall  see 
This  beautiful  boy  that  belongs  to  me ! 

They  tell  me  the  world  is  a  dreary  place, 

And  heavily  sown  with  tears ; 
But  when  I  look  in  my  child's  dear  face, 

My  heart  is  too  glad  for  fears ; 
And  all  I  can  give  seems  a  worthless  fee 
For  the  beautiful  boy  that  belongs  to  me. 


The  Child  that  belongs  to  Me.        29 

Nor  will  I  burden  my  days  with  sighs, 
Lest  God  for  my  child  should  send ; 

For  whether  he  lives  or  whether  he  dies, 
He  is  mine  till  Eternity's  end. 

And  I  fear  no  harm  to  my  child  or  me, 

Since  both,  O  Father,  belong  to  Thee ! 


IN  THE   DOOR. 

OR     forty     years     this    old     gray 

sentinel 
Has  braved  the  tempest  and  the 

driving  rain ; 

For  forty  years  its  rusty  hinge  has  creaked 
To  let  the  sunshine  in  and  out  again. 

The  little  hands  that  reached  to  clasp  the 

latch 
Are   clean    enough    to-day,    the    angels 

know ; 

For  they  were  emptied  of  the  toys  of  life, 
And  folded  passively  long  years  ago. 

I  brush  away  the  cobwebs  and  the  dust, 
And  sit  me  down  upon  the  sunken  sill; 

And  through  the  gate  and  up  the  garden 

walk, 
I  seem  to  see  my  children  trooping  still. 


In  the  Door.  31 

Their    merry  voices   cheer   my  lonesome 

ear; 
Their  little  garments  brush  me  as  they 

pass ; 
And   all   along   the    path    their  feet  have 

come 

A  trail   of  sunshine    parts  the  bended 
grass. 

I  am  no  longer  tired,  worn,  and  gray; 

My  children  cling  about  me  as  of  yore  ; 
And  with  their  hands  clasped  tightly  in 

my  own, 

We  watch   the   sunset   from   the    open 
door. 


TIRED   MOTHERS. 

LITTLE  elbow  leans  upon  your 

knee, 
Your    tired   knee,    that    has    so 

much  to  bear; 

A  child's  dear  eyes  are  looking  lovingly 
From   underneath  a   thatch  of  shining 

hair: 

Perhaps  you  do  not  heed  the  velvet  touch 
Of  warm,  moist  fingers,   folding  yours 

so  tight, 

You  do  not  prize  this  blessing  overmuch  — 
You    almost    are    too    tired    to    pray, 
to-night ! 

But  it  is  blessedness  !     A  year  ago 
I  did  not  see  it  as  I  do  to-day, 

We  are  so   dull  and  thankless;    and  too 

slow 
To  catch  the  sunshine  e'er  it  slips  away. 


Tired  Mothers.  33 

And  now  it  seems  surpassing  strange  to  me, 
That  while  I  wore  the  badge  of  mother 
hood, 
I  did  not  kiss  more  oft  and  tenderly 

The  little  child  that  brought  me  only 
good ! 

And  if  some  night  when  you  sit  down  to 

rest, 
You   miss   this   elbow   from  your  tired 

knee; 
This   restless,  curling  head  from  off  your 

breast, 
This      lisping      tongue     that      chatters 

constantly ; 
If  from  your  own  the  dimpled  hand  had 

slipped,    . 
And   ne'er  would   nestle   in  your  palm 

again  ; 
If    the   white   feet   into    their    grave   had 

tripped, 

I  could  not  blame  you  for  your  heart 
ache  then! 

3 


34  Tired  Mothers. 

I  wonder  so  that  mothers  ever  fret 

At  little  children,  clinging  to  their  gown ; 
Or  that  the  footprints,  when  the  days  are 

wet, 
Are  ever  black  enough  to  make  them 

frown  ! 
If  I  could  find  a  little  muddy  boot, 

Or  cap,  or  jacket,  on  my  chamber  floor; 
If  I  could  kiss  a  rosy,  restless  foot, 

And   hear  its  music  in  my  home  once 
more; 

If  I  could  mend  a  broken  cart  to-day, 

To-morrow  make  a  kite  to  reach  the  sky, 
There  is  no  woman  in  God's  world  could 
say 

She  was  more  blissfully  content  than  I. 
But,  ah !  the  dainty  pillow  next  my  own 

Is  never  rumpled  by  a  shining  head ; 
My  singing  birdling  from  its  nest  is  flown : 

The  little  boy  I  used  to  kiss  is  dead ! 


THE  SANTA  GLAUS  STORY. 

OW   sweet   it   all   was !     The   red 

firelight, 

The  cat  purring  soft  on  the  rug, 
The  wife  flitting  backwards  and  forwards, 

The  egg-nog  afoam  in  the  mug. 
And  when  I  looked  up  at  the  starlight, 

And  down  at  this  picture  so  fair, 
I  just  dropped  my  head,  and  in  silence 
Gave  thanks  to  the  Giver  right  there. 

The  parson  came  in,  and  we  told  him 

How  happy  our  boy  Fritzy  was, 
A-hanging  his  little  gray  stocking, 

And  prattling  about  Santa  Claus. 
And  how  Alice  said  as  she  kissed  me, 

A-reaching  my  neck  on  tip-toe  : 
"I  touldn't  hold  any  more  dladness, 

Dear  papa,  unless  I  should  drow." 


36  The  Santa  Clam  Story. 

But  the  parson  sat  gloomy  and  solemn, 

And  wife  looked  just  ready  to  cry 
When    he   said,    "Is    it    right,    my   good 

brother, 

To  tell  them  that  old-fashioned  lie? 
You  can't  expect  roses  and  lilies 

•  In  a  garden  where  thistles  are  sown, 
Nor  truth  from  the  lips  of  your  children, 
If    you     let     falsehood     blacken     your 
own." 

Then    he    said   "  Merry    Christmas,"    and 

left  us, 

That  dazed,  and  so  kind  of  unstrung, 
That    we     stared     at     those     little     gray 

stockings, 
Till    the    bells    in    the    church    steeple 

rung. 
And  their  chimes  took  me  back  to   my 

mother, 

And  I  stood  a  wee  chap  at  her  knee, 

And  heard  the  same  Santa  Claus  story 

That  Mary  and  Fritz  have,  from  me. 


The  Santa  Claus  Story.  37 

And  if  the  Lord  reckons  it  sinful 
I  hope  He  will  punish  it  light: 

Just  think  what  a  world  full  of  sinners 
Have  told  that  old  story  to-night ! 


COMPENSATION. 

HE     folded    up     the     worn    and 

mended  frock 
And  smoothed  it  tenderly  upon 

her  knee, 
Then  through  the  soft  web  of  a  wee  red 

sock 
She    wove    the    bright     wool,    musing 

thoughtfully, 

"  Can  this  be  all  ?   The  great  world  is  so  fair, 
I  hunger  for  its  green  and  pleasant  ways  ; 
A  cripple  prisoned  in  her  restless  chair, 
Looks  from  her  window  with  a  wistful 
gaze. 

"  The  fruits  I  cannot  reach  are   red    and 

sweet, 

The  paths  forbidden  are  both  green  and 
wide; 


Compensation.  39 

O  God  !  there  is  no  boon  to  helpless  feet 

So  altogether  sweet  as  paths  denied. 
Home     is     most     fair:     bright     are    my 

household  fires, 

And  children  are  a  gift  without  alloy : 
But  who   would  bound  the   field    of  her 

desires 

By   the  prim   hedges    of  mere   fireside 
joy? 

"  I  can  but  weave  a  faint  thread  to  and 

fro, 

Making  a  frail  woof  in  a  baby's  sock; 
Into  the  world's  sweet  tumult  I  would  go, 
At  its  strong  gates  my  trembling  hand 

would  knock." 
Just  then  the    children  came,  the    father 

too, 

Their  eager  faces  lit  the  twilight  gloom, 
"  Dear  heart,"  he  whispered,  as  he  nearer 

drew, 

"  How    sweet    it    is    within    this   little 
room ! 


40  Compensation 

"  God  puts  my  strongest  comfort  here  to 

draw 
When  thirst  is  great,  and  common  wells 

are  dry. 
Your  pure  desire  is  my  unerring  law; 

Tell  me,  dear  one,  who  is  so  safe  as  I? 
Home  is  the  pasture  where  my  soul  may 

feed, 

This  room  a  paradise  has  grown  to  be, 
And  only  where  these   patient  feet  shall 

lead 

Can  it  be  home  for  these  dear  ones  and 
me." 

He    touched     with     reverent     hand     the 

helpless  feet, 
The  children  crowded  close  and  kissed 

her  hair. 
"  Our   mother   is  so   good,  and  kind,  and 

sweet, 

There 's  not  another  like  her  anywhere  !  " 
The  baby  in  her  low  bed  opened  wide 
The  soft  blue  flowers  of  her  timid  eyes, 


Compensation.  4 1 

And  viewed  the  group   about  the  cradle 

side 

With    smiles     of    glad     and     innocent 
surprise. 

The  mother  drew  the  baby  to  her  breast 
And    smiling   said:     "The   stars   shine 
soft  to-night; 

My  world  is  fair;   its  hedges,  too,  are  best 
And  whatsoever  is,  dear  Lord,  is  right." 


TWO  VALENTINES. 

j|NE    was   the    loveliest   thing !    A 

pink  sachet 
Trimmed  with   soft  ribbons   and 

point  applique, 

While  heliotropes  upon  their  rosy  field 
The    daintiest    of    perfumes     seemed    to 
yield. 

Tom  thought  it  just  the  thing,  and  then  he 

knew 
The   nicest    girl    in  town  would  think   so 

too; 

And,  best  of  all,  within  the  folds  was  laid 
A  valentine  to  please  the  little  maid : 

"  What  is  daintier,  can  you  tell, 
Than  the  lichen  groves  where  the  fairies 
dwell? 


Two  Valentines.  43 

What  is  a  still  more  delicate  thing 

Than   the    silken    stuff    of    a    butterfly's 

wing? 

What  has  a  lining  do  you  think 
As  fair  as  the  mushroom's  fluted  pink? 

"Are   you    so    dull?      Why,    the    rarest 

thing 

Is  the   heart   of  the    girl  whose  praise  I 
sing !  " 

This  he  addressed  to  Miss  Maude  Alice 

Browne. 

Another  —  how  I  blush  to  write  it  down — • 
He    sent    in    spite    to    poor    lame    Meg 

McCray, 
Who  won  the  prize  in  algebra  that  day. 

"  There  is  a  young  person  I  know, 
Whose  shoes  are  all  out  at  the  toe  ; 

She  has  very  large  feet, 

Her  gown  is  not  neat, 
And  her  petticoats  hang  down  below. 


44  Two  Valentines. 

"  I  may  ride  a  broom  to  the  sky, 
A  snow-storm  may  fall  in  July, 

And  my  slatternly  friend 

Her  habits  may  mend  ; 
But  do  you  believe  it?     Not  I." 

But  can  you  tell  me  how  it  came  about 
That    Miss    Maude    Alice   Browne,    with 

laugh  and  shout, 
Received  Meg's  valentine?     And,  strange 

to  tell, 
Miss  Meg  McCray  received  Miss  Browne's 

as  well. 

'O  Tom!"  Meg  cried  with  innocent, 
round  eyes, 

''  I  Ve  had  the  dearest  kind  of  a  sur 
prise  ! 

Now  who  could  love  a  poor,  lame  girl 
like  me 

Enough  to  send  this  valentine?  Just 
see! 


Two  Valentines.  45 

"  If  I  were   rich  like   Miss    Maude   Alice 

Browne, 
And  pretty,  too —  Why,  Tom,  what  makes 

you  frown  ?  — 

It  could  not  be  so  sweet  to  me,  you  know, 
To  feel  that  some  kind  person  loves  me 

so. 

"  But  now  whenever  things  seem  hard  to 

bear, 

I  think  it  will  be  easier  not  to  care, 
And   being  lame  will  not  seem  quite  so 

bad, 
The  thought  that  some  one  cares  makes 

me  so  glad. 

Tom  looked  perplexed.     What  could  the 

fellow  do 
But  say,  "  Well,  Meg,  I  'm  just  as  glad  as 

you  !  " 
And  so   he  was :    the  jealous    fiend   had 

flown 
And  in  his  eyes  a  true  repentance  shone. 


46  Two  Valentines. 

And  Miss  Maude  Alice  Brown  cried  with 
a  laugh, 

"  Some  one  has  sent  me  my  own  photo 
graph  ! 

Well  it 's  a  joke,  and  here  's  the  best  of  it, 

It  does  n't  hurt  because  it  does  n't  hit !  " 

That  night  Tom's  sister  touched  him    on 

the  knee : 

"  I  say,  dear  Tom,"  she  said  michievously, 
"  I  wonder  if  the  Lord  will  credit  you 
With  what  you  did,  or  what  you  meant  to 

do." 


JOE'S  MERCIES. 

Well,  I  've  been  counting  my  mercies, 
As  my  grandmother  would  say, 

And  I  have  n't  got  many  to  brag  of, 
If  it  is  Thanksgiving  Day. 

There  's  mother,  of  course,  and  the  baby, 
They  're  down  in  big  letters,  you  know, 

But  between  you  and  me,  the  remainder 
Don't  make  an  exceeding  long  row. 

For  grandma  is  very  uncertain, 
And  likely  as  not,  before  long, 

To  quietly  slip  off  and  leave  us  — 
She  is  seventy,  and  not  very  strong. 

And  I  would  n't  give  a  brass  button 
For  a  palace,  no  matter  how  fine, 

That  has  n't  a  grandmother  in  it 
That  looks  pretty  nearly  like  mine. 


48  Joe's  Mercies. 

And  then,  you  will  own,  it's  a  trial, 

To  be  so  exceedingly  poor; 
It  takes  just  a  few  extra  mercies 

To  make  up  for  that,  I  am  sure. 

To-day,  we  '11  have  beef  and  rice  pudding, 
Thanksgiving  at  that     What  a  feast ! 

One  ought  to  expect  a  plump  turkey 
And  cranberry  sauce,  at  least. 

And  you  can't  guess  how  lonesome  it  is 
Jack, 

For  a  shaver  no  bigger  than  I, 
To  manage  without  any  father, 

And  I  hope  that  you  won't  have  to  try. 

And  the  more  I  try  to  be  thankful 
And  think  of  my  blessings  and  such ; 

The  more  it  appears,  on  that  subject, 
What  I  have  to  say  is  not  much. 

And  as  for  the  weather  —  it 's  horrid  ! 

Just  look  at  the  frost  on  the  glass  ! 
Why,  I  could  n't  catch  sight  of  a  circus 

If  one  should  happen  to  pass. 


Joe's  Mercies.  49 

Say,  Jacky  just  come  to  the  window; 

What  is  it  on  Benny  Bright's  door? 
It 's  a  strip  of  white  crape  and  a  ribbon ! 

O  Jack,  had  you  seen  it  before  ? 

And  there  goes  a  little  white  coffin 
And  flowers.  Yes,  Jack,  now  I  see  ! 

It  is  Ben's  little  rosy-faced  brother, 
Who  always  threw  kisses  at  me. 

Oh,  I  am  the  worst  of  boys,  Jacky, 
Don't  any  one  dare  tell  me  "  No," 

I  tell  you  I  '11  whip  the  first  fellow 
That  offers  to  say  it  ain't  so. 

But,  Jack,  it  never  once  struck  me 
Till  I  saw  that  small  coffin,  to-day, 

How  much  a  little  round  baby, 

Like  the  one  at  our  house,  can  weigh, 

But  I  say,  if  in  counting  his  mercies 

A  boy  is  inclined  to  be  slow, 
A  hearse  at  the  door  of  his  neighbor 

Will  quicken  his  senses,  I  know. 
4 


50  Joe's  Mercies. 

At  any  rate  that's  my  opinion ; 

And  I  think,  if  the  Lord  does  n't  care, 
I  '11  reckon  my  mercies  all  over; 

For,  Jacky,  I  didn't  count  fair. 


MY   LITTLE   BOY. 

'HE   old  square    clock  had    struck 

the  hour  of  eight. 
Outside    the    starry  lamps  were 

shining  high, 
The  silver  moon  in  regal  splendor  sate 

In  the  blue  glory  of  the  Christmas  sky, 
And  tired  workers  toiling  homeward  late 
Hummed     Christmas     carols     as    they 
plodded  by. 

My  little  boy  was  standing  by  my  chair, 
One  small  white  foot  was  bare  upon  the 

floor; 

His  shining  eyes  beheld  a  world  all  fair; 
His   face  was    eloquent   with    hopes  in 

store, 

For  hanging  in  the  chimney  corner  there 
Was  the  small   fleecy  sock  my  darling 
wore. 


52  My  Little  Boy. 

He  had  been  telling  me  in  eager  speech 
Of  all  the  treasures  Santa  Claus  would 

bring; 
There   were    no    bounds    his   sweet   faith 

could  not  reach, 

His   trust  was    simple   and  unquestion 
ing, 
While  I  had  learned  the  whole  that  life 

could  teach 
Of  bitter  doubt  and  cruel  suffering ! 

I  listened  to  him  with  a  wistful  prayer, 
I  longed  to  make  some  helpful  faith  my 

own ; 
That    into    my    poor    life    of    grief    and 

care 
Might  creep  a  truer  grace  than  it  had 

known — 
Some  blessed  trust  that  would  not  prove  a 

snare, 

Some  love  more  honest  than  the  world 
had  shown. 


My  Little  Boy.  53 

And  then  I  said,  "  The  Christmas  is  to  me 
More    sad,    my     boy,    than    you     can 

understand ; 

It  brings  me  gifts  of  pain  and  treachery, 
And  deals   them  through  a  loved  and 

trusted  hand. 

It  brings  a  broken  truth  my  staff  to  be, 
And  leaves  me  nothing  that  will  hold  or 
stand ! 

My  blessed  child  broke  in  upon  my  woe, 
Half  loving,  half  reproachfully  he  said, 
"  You   still   have  something   left ;  there  's 

me,  you  know ! 
Why,  one  might  think  your  little  boy 

was  dead ! 

I  'm  little  now,  but  when  I  larger  grow 
I  will  take  care  of  you,   mamma,"  he 
said. 

I  caught  him  with  a  passionate  surprise ; 
I  covered     him     with     kisses     burning 
sweet ! 


54  My  Little  Boy. 

My  life  grew  richer,  looking  in  his  eyes, 
Though    other    loves    were    poor    and 

incomplete ; 
And  praying  God  to  make  him  good  and 

wise, 
I  tucked  the  cover  soft  about  his  feet. 


WHAT  CAN   I   DO? 

can    I    do,    O    heavy   heart 

within, 

That  shall  atone 
For  this  most  sacrilegious  sin 
That  I  have  done? 

For  when  my  soul  would  seek  the  King 
alone 

A  round  bright  head 
Lifts  up  its  aureole  before  the  throne 

And  shines  instead. 

Nor  gates  of  pearl,  nor  walls  of  amethyst 

That  flash  and  glow, 

Have    grace   and    color   like    the    eyes    I 
kissed 

A  year  ago. 


56  What  can  I  do? 

And  Christ  forgive  me !     All  the  bliss  and 
balm 

Of  that  rare  land 
Are  held,  for  me,  within  the  slender  palm 

Of  one  small  hand ! 

One   day  my  soul  may  climb  on    holier 

round 

To  Heaven's  fair  place : 
But    now,   ah    me !     my    fierce   desire   is 

bound 
By  one  sweet  face. 


WHO  HATH  MADE  THEM  TO  DIFFER. 


HO  hath  made  them  to  differ  — 
Your  little  child  and  mine? 
Each  with  a  face  like  the  flower, 


Each  with  the  stamp  divine ! 
Who  hath  made  them  to  differ  — 
The  lamb  in  the  sheltering  fold, 
And  the  waif  with  never  a  pasture, 
Bleating  for  hunger  and  cold? 

Is  it  God  that  wrought  the  evil? 
Does  He  fashion  the  tender  flower 
Only  to  trample  its  chalice 
Under  the  tread  of  His  power? 
Is  it  God,  the  Father  of  Mercies, 
The  Blameless,  the  Undefiled, 
Who  hath  wrought  this  pitiful  evil 
In  the  life  of  a  little  child? 


58       Who  hath  made  Them  to  differ. 

Hath  He  erred  somehow  like  a  mortal, 
That  the  children  cry  for  bread? 
Is  it  God  hath  failed  in  His  weaving 
And  twisted  and  soiled  the  thread? 
Nay,  nay,  He  is  just,  and  our  Father, 
He  cannot  beget  a  wrong ! 
We  clash  the  keys  of  His  organ 
And  then  blame  Him  for  the  song. 

We  thrust  our  hands  in  His  purpose, 
And  tangle  them  in  His  wheel, 
And  then  cry  out  like  children, 
For  the  hurt  we  needs  must  feel. 
We  shatter  our  cup  of  blessing, 
Its  portion  we  waste  or  spill, 
And  then  complain  and  wonder 
That  the  poor  are  hungry  still. 

When  wast  Thou  sick,  O  Saviour ! 
And  I  ministered  not  to  Thee? 
"  If  thou  didst  it  not  to  my  brother 
Thou  didst  it  not  unto  me." 


Who  hath  made  Them  to  differ.       59 

Then  haste  while  the  pool  is  troubled ! 
Haste  in  the  name  of  Him  ! 
And  lift  with  the  clasp  of  a  mother 
Some  sufferer  over  the  brim  ! 


PAPA'S   BIRTHDAY. 

HAT  is  a  birthday,  papa? 

Is  it  something  nice  for  you? 
Are  they  good  for  little  fellows? 
And  can  /  have  one,  too  ? 
This  world  is  full  of  puzzles 

To  bother  boys  about ; 
But  it 's  a  pretty  hard  one 
My  papa  can't  make  out. 

Mamma  says  love  is  fairest 

Of  all  the  gifts  we  bring ; 
A  very  great  deal  sweeter 

Than  any  other  thing. 
Then,  if  there's  nothing  better, 

And  mamma  tells  me  true, 
Oh,  take  it  for  your  birthday 

From  your  little  boy  to  you  ! 


THE   LOST   CHRISTMAS. 

"  Seek  ye  first  the  King." 

HE  Russian  peasants  tell  to-day 

A  legend  old  and  dear  to  them, 
How,   when   the  wise    men   went 

their  way 
To  find  the  Babe  at  Bethlehem, 


They  paused  to  let  their  camels  rest 
Beside  a  peasant's  lowly  door ; 

And  all  intent  upon  their  quest 

They  talked  their  sacred  errand  o'er. 

"  Come  with  us,"  said  the  eager  three ; 

"  Come,  seek  with  us  the  heavenly  Child  ; 
What  prouder  honor  can  there  be 

For  mortals,  sinful  and  defiled? 


62  The  Lost  Christmas. 

"  And  bid  each  child  in  Sunday  clothes 
Bring  of  his  treasures  the  most  rare, 

Bundles  of  myrrh  and  whitest  doves, 
With    ointment    for    the    Christ- King's 
hair. 

"  Who  knows  what  blessing  may  befall 
If  they  but  touch  His  garment's  hem? 

And  only  once  for  them  and  all 

Will  Christ  be  born  at  Bethlehem  !  " 


"  Alas  !     My  task  must  first  be  done," 
The  mother  answered  with  a  sigh ; 

"  But  I  would  see  the  holy  one, 
And  I  will  follow  by  and  by." 

The  wise  men  frowned  and  onward  went, 
Leaving  the  children  all  aglow, 

And  pleading  till  the  day  was  spent, 

"When  may  we    go?     When  may  we 
go?" 


The  Lost  Christmas.  63 

And  while  their  cheeks  flushed  rosy  red, 
They  shouted  in  a  chorus  sweet : 

"And  may  we  touch  His  pretty  head? 
And  may  we  kiss  His  blessed  feet?" 

But  women  still  will  brew  and  bake, 
No  matter  what  sweet  honors  wait; 

And  petty  tasks  they  undertake, 
Though  angels  tarry  at  the  gate ! 

And  when  all  things  were  in  their  place, 
And  every  child  was  neat  and  trim ; 

When  each  tear-stained  and  tired  face 
Was  bathed  and  tied  its  hood  within ; 

The  sky  was  purpling  in  the  west, 
The  silent  night  was  hurrying  on ; 

The  three  wise  men  had  onward  pressed, 
The  star  from  out  the  east  had  gone  ! 

What  could  the  foolish  mother  do? 

She  turned  her  footsteps  home  again ; 
And  never,  all  her  sad  life  through, 

Did  she  behold  the  three  wise  men. 


64  The  Lost  Christmas. 

And  thus  through  weak  delaying  she 
Her  sweetest  privilege  had  missed ; 

Nor  ever  did  her  children  see 

The  Holy  Babe  they  might  have  kissed. 


A  SWEET  OLD   LEGEND. 

RING  that  low  footstool  from  the 

corner,  Ted; 
Mary  and  Jack  you  cannot  crowd 

too  near; 
While    baby    Bess    will    curl    her    pretty 

head 

Against  my  heart,  that  holds  you  all  so 
dear. 

Now   for   the    legend.     Once,   long   years 

ago, 
When   in  our  world   the  blessed    Lord 

was  seen, 
He   walked    one  evening,   tired,   sad,  and 

slow, 

With  His  disciples  through  the  meadows 
green. 

5 


66  A  Sweet  Old  Legend. 

Why  was  He  sad?     Dear  child,  I  cannot 

say 
What  burdens  pressed  upon  His  heart 

divine  — 
Perhaps  none  had  believed  on  Him  that 

day; 

Perhaps    He   thought    upon    your   sins 
and  mine. 

Along  the  way  the  sweet  field  lilies  grew 

In  rich  apparel,  finer  than  a  king's; 
Above  His  head  the  twittering  sparrows 

flew  — 

(He    drew     His    sermons    from    these 
simple   things). 

Now    as   they   walked    on    holy   thoughts 

intent, 
Upon  the  path  a  poor  dead  dog  they 

spied : 
One  spurned  him  with  his  foot  as  on  he 

went, 
And  "What  an  ugly  beast,"  another  cried. 


A  Sweet  Old  Legend.  67 

But    in    their   Master's   eyes    compassion 

shone ; 
He  stooped  and  touched  the  creature's 

shaggy  head, 

"  At  least,  my  dear  disciples,  you  will  own 
His    teeth    are    white    as    pearls,"    He 
gently  said. 

Then  they  passed  on.     Dears,  is  it  strange 

to  you 
That  mothers  with  their  babies  round 

Him  pressed? 
That   Peter   learned   to    be   so  good  and 

true, 

And  John  leaned  close  upon  His  loving 
breast? 


PLOUGHED   UNDER. 

T  grieves    me    much,    the   homes 

that  I  have  spoiled, 
Of  nest  and  burrow; 
As  in  my  barley-field  to-day  I  toiled, 
Ploughing  the  furrow. 

Armies  of  ants  that  grain  by  grain  had 

laid 

Their  snug  embankment, 
Were     overwhelmed     by     my     unhappy 

raid  — 
Fort  and  encampment. 

The  silver  ropes  a  cunning  gymnast  spun 

Met  such  disaster 

That  a  wise  fly  who  watched  the  spider 
run, 

Buzzed  out  with  laughter! 


Ploughed  Under.  69 

Beneath  a  roof,  where  dandelion  stars 

The  rafters  gilded, 
Secured  by  no  distrustful  bolts  or  bars, 

Some  birds  had  builded. 

I  peeped  within,  despite  a  sentry  bold 

Of  doughty  metal, 

Whose   stinging    impudence    I    knew   of 
old- 

His  name  was  Nettle  ! 

It  was  not  his  rude  protest  made  me  spare 

My  sparrow  tenants  ; 

I  vanquished  him,  but  left  still  fluttering 
there 

The  flower  pennants. 

And  oh !     I    grieve   that   I   who  hate  to 

roam 

From  my  own  burrow, 
Have  turned  blind  little  moles  out  of  their 

home 
Beneath  my  furrow ! 


WAITING. 

'HEN    the    crickets    chirp    in    the 

evening 
And   the  stars   flash  out  in  the 

sky, 
Lonely  I  sit  in  my  doorway 

And  watch  the  children  go  by; 

I  look  at  their  fresh  young  faces, 

And  hark  to  each  merry  word, 

For  to  me  a  child's  own  language 

Is  the  sweetest  ever  heard. 

I  sit  in  my  lonely  doorway 

In  the  hour  that  I  love  the  best, 
And  think,  as  I  see  them  passing, 

My  child  will  come  with  the  rest ; 
Think,  as  I  hear  the  clicking 

Of  the  little  garden  gate, 
My  darling's  hand  is  upon  it  — 

Oh,  why  has  she  come  so  late? 


Waiting.  7 1 

But  the  days  have  been  slowly  weaving 

Their  warp  of  toil  in  my  life ; 
The  weeks  have  brought  me  their  burden 

Of  waiting  and  patience  and  strife; 
The  flowers  that  came  with  the  sunshine 

Have  finished  their  errand  so  sweet, 
And  Autumn  is  dropping  her  harvests 

Mellow  and  ripe  at  my  feet. 

And  yet  my  little  girl  comes  not, 

So  I  think  she  has  missed  her  way, 
And  strayed  from  this  cold,  dark  country 

To  one  of  perpetual  day. 
Perhaps.     But  I  long  to  enfold  her, 

To  tangle  my  hand  in  her  hair, 
To  feast  my  starved  mouth  on  her  kisses, 

To  hear  her  light  foot  on  the  stair. 

Some  day  I  am  sure  I  shall  find  her, 
But  the  road  is  lonesome  between, 

My  spirit  grows  sick  and  impatient 
For  glimpses  of  pastures  so  green  ; 


72  Waiting. 

Waiting  I  sit  in  the  doorway, 
In  the  hour  my  heart  loves  best, 

And  think,  when  the  children  pass  home 
ward, 
My  child  will  come  with  the  rest. 


IN  VANITY   FAIR. 

RANDMOTHER  sits  in  the  cor 
ner  there 
Watching  the  comers  to  Vanity 

Fair, 
For   Madame,    her   daughter,    "receives" 

to-day, 

And  a  throng  of  carriages  bars  the  way ; 
While  color  and  perfume,  and  rare  waltz- 
note 
In  my  lady's  corridors  blend  and  float. 

Yes,  grandmother  calls  it  "Vanity  Fair," 
As  she  views  the  scene  from  her  cushioned 

chair; 

With  a  curious  shadow  of  grave  surprise 
Troubling  the  depths  of  her  fine  old  eyes 
At  the  shimmering  robes,  the  laces  fine, 
And   the  splendid   jewels  that   flash  and 

shine. 


74  In  Vanity  Fair. 

As  she  watches  her  daughter  debonnaire, 
Greeting  the  guests  to  Vanity  Fair, 
Does  she  not  look  like  a  picture  old, 
With  her  stiff  brocade,  and  her  kerchief's 

fold? 

Or  a  somewhat  prim,  old-fashioned  flower 
In  the  hot-house  air  of  my  lady's  bower? 

Standing  under  the  candles'  flare, 
In  the  tinted  light  of  Vanity  Fair, 
Is  her  granddaughter,  with  eyes  so  blue 
That  a  pair  of  stars  mistook  their  hue 
For  the  larger  heavens  and  softly  hid 
Behind  the  cloud  of  each  snowy  lid  ! 

And  grandmother  sighs  with  a  troubled  air 
•'They   will   spoil    you,    dear,    in    Vanity 

Fair; 
They  will  brush  the  dew  from  your  youth, 

I  know, 

And  I  trust  not  fully  the  handsome  beau 
Who  bent  to  your  hand  with  so  fine  a  bow 
And  gave  you  the  crimson  rose  but  now?  " 


In  Vanity  Fair.  75 

And  she  mutters,  "  Poor  little  fly,  take  care 
Of  the  webs  they  weave  in  Vanity  Fair !  " 
And  no  philosopher  in  the  land 
Could  make  this  grandmother  understand 
That  Vanity  Fair,  with  its  tricks  and  ways, 
Was  much  the  same  in  her  younger  days. 

Grandmother,  brooding  on  days  that  were, 
You  are  out  of  place  in  Vanity  Fair  ! 
As  a  sweet  old  psalm  is  out  of  chime 
With    a    prancing    tune,    or   a    laughing 

rhyme ; 

You  are  out  of  place  in  this  modern  room 
With  its  garish  light,  and  its  rich  perfume. 

Let  us  wheel  you  out  of  the  aching  glare 
From   the    lights    and    sounds    of   Vanity 

Fair; 

Up  the  stairs  to  the  restful  gloom 
Of  your  own  old-fashioned,  quiet  room, 
Where   the   same    clock   ticks    the    hours 

away 
That  wakened  you  on  your  wedding-day. 


76  In  Vanity  Fair. 

Let  us  leave   all   schemes   that  vex    and 

snare 

To  the  belles  and  beaux  of  Vanity  Fair. 
You  have  had  your  day;   now  your  night 

is  near, 

Let  us  come  away  to  your  chamber  here, 
Where  peaceful  slumber  your  eyes  invite, 
Turn   the   light   low;     sleep   well;    good 
night  ! 


IF. 

F,  sitting  with  this  little  worn-out 

shoe 
And  scarlet  stocking  lying  on 

my  knee, 
I    knew    the    careless    feet    had    pattered 

through 
The    pearl -set    gates    that    lie    'twixt 

Heaven  and  me, 

And  I  could  see  beyond  the  mists  of  blue 
God's  tender  hand,  I  could  submissive 
be. 

If,  in  the  morning,  when  the  song  of  birds 
Reminds  me  of  a  music  far  more  sweet, 

I  listen  for  his  pretty  broken  words 
And  for  the  music  of  his  dimpled  feet, 

I  could  be  almost  happy,  though  I  heard 
No  answer,  and  but  saw  his  vacant  seat. 


78 


I  could  be  glad,  if,  when  the  day  is  done, 
And   all  its  cares  and    heartaches   laid 

away, 

I  could  look  westward  to  the  hidden  sun, 
And,  with  a  heart  full  of  sweet  yearn 

ings,  say, 

"  To-night  I'm  nearer  to  my  little  one 
By  just  the  travel  of  a  single  day." 

If  I  could  know  those  little  feet  were  shod 
In   sandals   wrought  of  light  in   better 

lands, 

And  that  the  foot-prints  of  a  tender  God 
Ran   side    by    side   with  his   in  golden 

sands, 

I  could  bow  cheerfully  and  kiss  the  rod, 
Knowing  he  was  in  wiser,  safer  hands. 

If  he  had  died,  as  little,  children  do, 

I  would  not  stain  the  wee  sock  on  my 

knee 
With  bitter  tears,  nor  kiss  the  empty  shoe 


//•  79 

And  cry,  "  Bring    back    my    little    boy 

to  me !  " 

I  could  be  patient,  until  patience  grew 
Into  the  gladness  of  Eternity. 

But  oh,  to  know  the  feet  once  pure  and 

white, 

The   haunts  of  vice    have    boldly   ven 
tured  in  ! 
The   hands  that  should   have  battled   for 

the  right 
Have  been  wrung  crimson  in  the  clasp 

of  sin ! 
And  should    he   knock  at   Heaven's   gate 

to-night, 

My  boy,  alas,  could  scarce  an  entrance 
win ! 


BUDGE,   TOM,  AND   HONEST  JOE. 


ITHIN   it  wanted  just  an  hour  of 

four; 
Without,   the  world  in   summer 

beauty  lay, 
And    wistfully    beyond    the    school-room 

door 

Budge,    Tom,    and   Joseph  looked   this 
hot  June  day. 

They  knew  that  in  the  fields  the  clover 

spread 

A  rosy  carpet,  velvety  and  sweet ; 
They  knew  the  path  that  to  the  old  bridge 

led, 

Where  children  loved  to  sit  and  swing 
their  feet. 


Budge,  Tom,  and  Honest  Joe.        81 

They  knew  that  cherries  hung  upon  the 

trees, 
That     trusting     fishes      swarmed      the 

singing  brook; 
The  robins  seemed  to  call  them  from  the 

leaves, 

"  Come    out !     Come    out !     and    leave 
that  hateful  book  !  " 

Budge  dropped  his  drowsy  head  upon  his 

breast, 

Tom  watched   a  fly  upon  the  window- 
pane, 

While  Joseph,  less  lethargic  than  the  rest, 
Made  horrid  faces  at  his  sister  Jane. 

The  teacher  saw  the  action  with  a  smile, 
Their   flushed    young    faces    made   her 

pitiful ; 
"Which    will   you    do,   go  out   and    play 

awhile, 

Or  stay  with  me,"  she  said,  "  till  close 
of  school?  " 

6 


82        Budge,  Tom,  and  Honest  Joe. 

Budge  raised  his   sleepy  head  with   glad 

surprise, 
(Just   then   a   robin    past   the   doorway 

flew!) 
He  choked,  grew  rosy  red,  then  dropped 

his  eyes ; 

"  I  guess —  I  *d  rather  —  stay  in  here  — 
with  you." 

"And   you,  my  Tommy?"      Should    not 

Tommy  dare 
To  follow  whither  Spartan   Budge  had 

led? 
(The   robin    called,    the   sky  was    oh,    so 

fair !) 

"  I  '11   stay  with  —  Budge,   I  guess,"  he 
gasping  said. 

But  Joseph,  with   a  look  half  bold,  half 

shy, 

His  brown  toes  twisting  in  an  awkward 
way, 


Budge,   Tom,  and  Honest  Joe.        83 

Said,  with  a  slight  contempt  in  tone  and 

eye, 

"  There  ain't  no  use  to  talk,  /  'd  rather 
play." 

The  teacher  smiled  ;  "  I  fear,  my  little  Joe, 
You  only  have  been  honest  of  the  three. 

I  take  each  at  his  word ;  so  you  may  go, 
While  Budge  and  Tommy  will  remain 
with  me." 

Poor  little  boys !   for  such  a  sacrifice 
This  was  a  fee  they  could  not  under 
stand  ; 
But  when  they  said  good  night  she  kissed 

them  thrice, 

And    patted     each    round     head     with 
gentle  hand. 

And  were  they  wholly  wrong,  and  Joe  all 

right? 

I  leave  the  answer  for  your  tongues  to 
fill. 


84        Budge,  Tom,  and  Honest  Joe. 

Talk  it  all  over  by  the  fire  to-night, 

And  gather  from  the   story  what  you 
will. 

But  often  do  the  world's  sweet  flatteries 
Remind  me  of  a  day  long  years  ago, 

Around  which  cluster  funny  memories 
Of  three  small  boys,  Budge,  Tom,  and 
honest  Joe. 


IN    MEMORY    OF    MR.    CROWLEY    OF 
CENTRAL   PARK. 

;O  citizen  of  inferior  name 

Has   yielded    up    life's    languid 

spark, 
But  a  chimpanzee  of  goodly  fame,  — 

Mr.  Crowley  of  Central  Park, 
Who  from  interior  Africa  came. 

Many  a  slave  of  the  pen  we  see, 

Who  scribbles  away  from  dawn  till  dark, 

Nor  earns  the  fame  of  this  chimpanzee, 
Who  could  neither  write  nor  make  his 
mark, 

Paradoxical  though  it  be. 

Many  a  player  his  lines  may  croon, 

Nor  happily   win,    when   his    form  lies 
stark, 


86       Mr.  Crowley  of  Central  Park. 

An  editorial  in  the  Tribune 

Like  Mr.  Crowley  of  Central  Park, 
Late  trapeze  player  !     Poor  dead  buffoon  ! 

And  many  a  poacher  upon  life's  joys, 
Bagging  his  spoils  with  a  snarl  and  bark, 

To  meaner  purpose  his  life  employs 

Than  Mr.  Crowley  of  Central  Park ;  — 

Jester  at  court  of  the  girls  and  boys. 

For  a  chimpanzee  that  can  cheat  dull  care, 
And  break  a  tooth  of  that  hungry  shark ; 

Who  lightens  the  pack  that  the  poor  must 

bear 
Like  Mr.  Crowley  of  Central  Park, 

Is  a  better  thing  than  the  poacher  there. 

No   more,  poor   clown,   will  your  pranks 
beguile 

Life's  weary  labor  and  ceaseless  cark  ; 
You  will  be  set  up  in  a  life-like  style, 

And  hold  levees  in  a  crystal  ark, 
With  a  very  fixed  and  bias/  smile. 


Mr.  Crowley  of  Central  Park.       87 

Then,  an  revoir,  with  a  kind  regret ! 

Death  interfered  in  your  jolly  lark, 
And  many  a  child's  dear  eyes  are  wet 

For  Mr.  Crowley  of  Central  Park,  — 
The  dearest  monkey  they  ever  met ! 


LININGS. 

AY,   nay,  dear  child,  I  cannot  let 

you  slight 
Those    inner    stitches    on   your 

gown's  fair  hem 

Because,  you  say,  they  will  be  out  of  sight, 
And  no  stern  critic  will  discover  them. 

You  do  but  build  a  most  inviting  hedge, 
Behind  which  falsehood  and  deceit  may 
lurk, 

When  you  embroider  fair  the  outer  edge, 
And  to  the  inner  give  no  honest  work. 

The  silken  chain  of  habit  which  you  wear 
So  lightly  now  upon  your  careless  youth 
Will  strengthen   strand   by   strand ;    then 

have  a  care  ! 

Else  it  may  throttle  the  sweet  soul   of 
truth. 


Linings.  89 

I  hold  that  every  stitch  untruly  set 

Weaves  a  soiled  thread  along  your  web 

of  fate; 
And    each   deceitful    seam    may   prove    a 

net 

To  hurt  and  hinder,  trust  me,  soon  or 
late. 

Ah,  dearest  child,  on  everything  you  do 
Let  the  white  seal  of   honor  stamp  its 

grace. 
Keep  all  your  soul  as  clean  with  heaven's 

dew 

As   the    pink    flower    of    your    tender 
face. 

God  makes  no  clumsy  linings.     Mark  this 

bloom  ! 
A  "  fairy's  glove ;  "  and  though  it  grieves 

my  heart 
To    send     the    smallest     blossom    to    its 

tomb, 
We  '11  tear  this  dainty  little  glove  apart. 


90  Linings. 

In  this  and  every  flower  that  we  behold, 
From  crimson  rose  to   pansy's    purple 

vest, 

God  sews  the  velvet  on  the  inner  fold, 
And  makes  His  linings  fairer  than  the 
rest. 

Is  it  not  perfect,  from  the  slender  stem 
To  the  brown   dapples  on   the   curling 

rim? 
God    folds   not   carelessly    the    foxglove's 

hem; 

Then   try,    my   little   child,    to    be    like 
Him. 


A  PRAYER. 

H,  long  strong  breaths  of  salt  sea 

air, 
Oh,     north     winds     rough    and 

south  winds  fair, 
Toss  all  your  rosy  gifts  about, 
And  blow  afar  our  weary  doubt ! 

Milk-white  foam  roses,  break  for  me 
From  the  green  gardens  of  the  sea, 
And  bring  thy  fragrance,  briny  sweet, 
To  wrap  our  love  from  brow  to  feet ! 

Bring  rosy  color  to  her  mouth; 
And  from  the  warm  and  humid  South 
Waft  spices  to  the  fevered  breath, 
And  antidote  the  spell  of  death  ! 


92  A  Prayer. 

And  from  thy  green  o'erflowing  cup 
My  hand  shall  dip  a  potion  up, 
And  in  thy  wine,  to  thee  I  '11  quaff 
With  relish  sweet  and  joyous  laugh. 

Then  bring  to  her  the  jewel  health. 
For  naught  of  all  thy  treasured  wealth 
Is  half  so  precious  as  this  pearl  — 
This  drooping  lily  of  a  girl ! 


A   LITTLE   CYNIC. 


g|||p]ANDELION  and  clover-top, 
Growing  close  together, 
Bobbed  their  bright  young  heads 

and  talked 
In  the  sweet  spring  weather. 

Just  across  the  little  path 

In  a  grassy  hollow, 
Buttercup  was  coquetting 

With  a  noisy  swallow. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  Dandelion, 

Growing  stiff  and  sullen, 
"That  this  minx,  who  used  to  rank 

With  milk-weed  and  mullein, 

"  Goes  to  parties,  matinees, 
And  all  such  queer  places, 

And  is  quite  the  rage  they  say, 
With  her  airs  and  graces?" 


94  A  Little  Cynic. 

"  Well,"  laughed  Clover,  merrily, 

"  This  will  we  agree  on, 
That  she  wears  her  honors  well 

For  such  a  plebeian  ! 

"  I  should  quite  disgrace  myself — 

Spill  my  dew  at  dinner, 
When  it  comes  to  etiquette 

I  'm  a  dreadful  sinner." 

"  There  is  Madam  Hollyhock," 

Still  pursued  the  other, 
"  Used  to  be  on  friendly  terms 

With  my  great  grandmother. 

"  Then  she  wore  a  narrow  skirt 

With  a  simple  tunic; 
Now  she  looks  like  some  grand  dame 

Just  arrived  from  Munich  ! 

"  Then  she  leant  upon  the  wall 

Or  the  lattice,  may  be, 
Now  she  rings  the  front  door  bell 

Just  like  any  lady !  " 


A  Little  Cynic.  95 

"  Why,  you  must  be  jealous,  dear!  " 

Clover  said  serenely ; 
"  For  her  colors  are  superb, 

And  her  manners  queenly. 

"  Her  quaint  bodice  of  pale  green 

Fits  her  to  perfection, 
And  a  ruffle  more  or  less 

Is  no  great  objection." 

Just  then  Violet  passed  by 

In  her  soft,  blue  bonnet; 
Dandelion's  face  grew  dark 

With  the  frown  upon  it. 

"  See  !  "  she  cried,  "  the  whole,  glad  world 

Greets  her  as  she  passes, 
While  our  lives  are  hidden  here 

In  the  weeds  and  grasses  ! 

"  How  I  hate  her  artless  ways  ! 

Hate  her  queer  poke  bonnet ! 
Hate  her  modest  drooping  face, 

With  the  soft  smile  on  it ! 


g6  A  Little  Cynic. 

"  '  Modest  Violet,'  indeed, 

When  her  very  glory 
Is  the  meek  humility 

Granted  her  in  story ! 

"Tell  me,  does  God  love  her  best? 

Count  her  blue  gown  fairer? 
Are  her  graces  sweet  to  Him? 

Is  her  perfume  rarer?  " 

"  Hush!  "  said  Clover,  sweetly  grave, 

"  God  is  God  forever ; 
Doubt  whatever  else  you  will, 

But  His  goodness  never! 

"  Violet  gives  lavishly 

Of  her  wealth  of  sweetness ; 

And  the  world  requites  the  debt 
From  its  own  completeness. 

"  Do  not  wrong  the  God  above 
And  our  brown  earth-mother. 

Why  not  like  your  own  life  best, 
Sighing  for  no  other? 


A  Little  Cynic.  97 

"  I  would  never  change  my  lot 

With  my  wild  bee  lover 
For  a  world  of  violets ; 

No,  not  I !  "  trilled  Clover. 

"  Humph  !  "  that  little  cynic  said 
With  her  bright  eyes  closing; 

And  the  rest  I  never  heard, 
For  she  fell  a-dozing. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

OD  bless  the  little  stockings 

All  over  the  land  to-night, 
Hung  in  the  choicest  corners 
In  a  glow  of  crimson  light ! 
The  tiny  scarlet  stocking, 

With  a  hole  in  heel  and  toe, 
Worn  by  wonderful  journeys 
The  darlings  have  had  to  go. 

And  Heaven  pity  the  children, 

Wherever  their  home  may  be, 
Who  wake  at  the  first  gray  dawning 

An  empty  stocking  to  see, 
Left  in  the  faith  of  childhood 

Hanging  against  the  wall, 
Just  where  the  dazzling  glory 

Of  Santa's  light  will  fall ! 


Christmas  Eve.  99 

Alas,  for  the  lonely  mother 

Whose  home  is  empty  and  still, 
Who  has  no  scarlet  stockings 

With  childish  toys  to  fill ! 
But  sits  in  the  deepening  twilight, 

With  her  face  against  the  pane, 
And  grieves  for  the  little  baby 

Whose  grave  lies  out  in  the  rain ! 


O  empty  shoes  and  stockings, 

Forever  laid  aside ! 
The  tangled,  broken  shoe-strings 

That  will  never  more  be  tied  ! 
O  little  graves,  at  the  mercy 

Of  the  cold  December  rain  ! 
The  feet  in  their  snow-white  sandals, 

That  never  can  trip  again  ! 

But  happier  they  who  slumber 
With  marble  at  foot  and  head, 

Than  the  child  who  has  no  shelter, 
No  raiment,  nor  food,  nor  bed. 


ioo  Christmas  Eve. 

Yes  !  Heaven  help  the  living ! 

Children  of  want  and  pain, 
Knowing  no  fold  nor  pasture  — 

Outside  to-night  in  the  rain ! 


JAMIE'S  PRAYER. 

;AY'S  weary  burdens  are  laid  by; 
The   world's    great   throbbing 

heart  is  still ; 
The  stars  flash  out,  the  moon's  fair  face 
Rests  on  the  peak  of  yonder  hill. 

I  hear  the  katydids  contend 

The  rustling  maple  leaves  among; 

And  leaning  toward  the  apple  boughs, 
I  hear  the  robin  brood  her  young. 

It  is  the  hour  when  children's  prayers 
Like  perfume  from  the  lilies  rise, 

When  all  the  angels  cry,  "  Oh,  list !  " 
And  God  makes  silence  in  the  skies. 

Two  small  brown  hands,  unsoiled  by  sin, 
Are  folded  softly  on  my  knee, 

And  over  them  my  child's  dear  head 
Is  bowed  in  sweet  humility. 


>2  Jamie's  Prayer. 

Hark  to  the  little  honest  prayer ! 

"  Dear  God,  I  am  too  tired  to  pray, 
And  't  ain't  as  if  you  didn't  know 

Just  all  I  've  said  and  done  to-day. 

"  I  know  it  takes  a  sight  of  love 

To  make  a  boy's  sins  white,  but  then 

You  don't  go  back  on  what  you  say, 
And  I  am  not  afraid  —  Amen." 


SHOCKING! 

HE  smallest  wheel  in  the  rector's 

clock, 
The  busiest  worker  in  that  queer 

mill, 

Grew  tired  of  hearing  the  same  tick-tock, 
So   a  Sunday  morning  it  stood   stock- 
still  ! 

And  what  befell?     Why,  the  rector  good 
Arrived  at  his  church  full  a  half  hour 

late, 
With    a    flying     gown  —  as     no     parson 

should  — 
While  all  the  parish  amazed  did  wait. 

With  childish  wonder  our  little  Sue, 

Who  never  had  been  in  a  church  before 
Jaw,  from  her  high-backed,  oaken  pew, 
The  rector  enter  the  chancel  door. 


104  Shocking! 

The   wonder    grew   in   the    child's   brown 

eyes, 

What  she  was  thinking  we  could  not  tell, 
But  a  look  of  shame  and  of  shocked  sur 
prise 
Over  her  face  like  a  shadow  fell. 

''What   did   you    see    at   the   church,   my 

sweet?" 

Said  grandmother,  kissing  the  lifted  chin, 
When  at  dinner  the  two  did  meet. 

"Oh,    grandma!     the    preacher    came 

flying  in, 
So  late  that  he  did  n't  get  on  his  clothes, 

And  had  just  a  great,  long  nightgown  on ; 
He  had  to  hurry  so,  I  suppose !  " 

Said  the  innocent  child,  while  her  round 
eyes  shone. 

"  I  guess  he  was  drefful  ashamed  of  hisself ; 

Would  n't  you  be,  grandma,  in  his  place? 
For  he  knelt  right  down  on  a  little  shelf, 

And  held  his  two  hands  over  his  face  ! 


Shocking!  105 

And,  grandma,  it  was  a  minute  before 
He  would  lift  his  head  and  read  from 

his  book. 
He  '11    not   wear   his    nightgown,    I    guess 

any  more. 

Oh,  dear!"  and  she  sighed,  "  how  queer 
it  did  look  !  " 


THE   SCARECROW.* 

HOREAU     surveyed     the    effigy 

with  scorn. 
"  Well !  well ! "  laughed  he,  "  some 

urchin  must  have  planned 
This  man  of  straw.     No  crow  in  all  the 

land 

Was  ever  frightened  from  a  feast  of  corn 
By  such  a  sentinel.     No  blackbird  born 
Would  hesitate  to  perch  upon  its  hand. 
Crows  are  too   knowing  not  to   under 
stand 
That  this  poor,  stuffed-out  thing,  battered 

and  worn, 
With    dangling    arms     and     shapeless, 

jointless  pegs, 

Was    never    made    by    God."      Thoreau 
paused  here 

*  A  true  anecdote  of  Thoreau. 


The  Scarecrow.  107 

In  his  wise  dissertation  upon  crows ; 
For  lo !    the  scarecrow  moved   its  "joint- 
less  "  legs 
And   walked   away  to   a   gray   farmhouse 

near. 
That  was  a  funny  blunder  of  Thoreau's  ! 


IF  WE   KNEW. 

F  we  knew  the  baby  fingers 

Pressed    against    the    window- 
pane 
Would  be  cold  and  stiff  to-morrow  — 

Never  trouble  us  again ; 
Would  the  bright  eyes  of  our  darling 

Catch  the  frown  upon  our  brow? 
Would  the  prints  of  rosy  fingers 
Vex  us  then  as  they  do  now? 

Ah,  these  little  ice-cold  fingers, 

How  they  point  our  memories  back 
To  the  hasty  words  and  actions 

Strewn  along  our  backward  track ! 
How  these  little  hands  remind  us, 

As  in  snowy  grace  they  lie, 
Not  to  scatter  thorns  —  but  roses  — 

For  our  reaping  by  and  by ! 


If  We  knew.  109 

Strange  we  never  prize  the  music 

Till  the  sweet-voiced  bird  has  flown ; 
Strange  that  we  should  slight  the  violets 

Till  the  lovely  flowers  are  gone ; 
Strange  that  summer  skies  and  sunshine 

Never  seem  one-half  so  fair 
As  when  winter's  snowy  pinions 

Shake  their  white  down  in  the  air ! 


Lips  from  which  the  seal  of  silence 

None  but  God  can  roll  away, 
Never  blossomed  in  such  beauty 

As  adorns  the  mouth  to-day; 
And  sweet  words  that  freight  our  memory 

With  their  beautiful  perfume, 
Come  to  us  in  sweeter  accents 

Through  the  portals  of  the  tomb. 

Let  us  gather  up  the  sunbeams 

Lying  all  around  our  path ; 
Let  us  keep  the  wheat  and  roses, 

Casting  out  the  thorns  and  chaff; 


no  If  We  knew. 

Let  us  find  our  sweetest  comfort 
In  the  blessings  of  to-day ; 

With  a  patient  hand  removing 
All  the  briars  from  our  way. 


A  LITTLE  ROBBER. 

LITTLE  robber  whom  I  know 
Came   to   my   house  nine  years 

ago, 

And,  with  the  most  provoking  ease, 
Found  out  my  casket  and  my  keys, 
And  of  the  treasures  I  possessed 
Purloined  the  dearest  and  the  best. 
The  way  this  robber  came  to  me 
Is  wrapped  in  sweetest  mystery ; 
But  the  bewitching  little  thief, 
Without  remorse  or  touch  of  grief, 
First  stole,  in  many  a  pretty  way, 
Three  times  eight  jewels  every  day; 
Then,  with  his  soft  and  rosy  hands, 
He  pulled  down  all  my  strong  commands, 
The  cherished  plan,  the  ripened  thought, 
By  years  of  rich  experience  bought. 
My  favorite  opinions,  too, 
He  into  wildest  chaos  threw. 


ii2  A  Little  Robber. 

Some  prim  old  maxims,  quaintly  wrought 
With  silver  thread  and  pious  thought, 
By  long  consent  had  grown  to  be 
Proud  souvenirs  of  ancestry  ; 
These,  by  mere  love  of  mischief  led, 
He  picked  to  pieces  thread  by  thread, 
Until  I  feared  my  grandma's  ghost 
Would  chain  me  to  a  whipping-post ! 
When  I  reproached,  his  wondrous  eyes 
Took  on  such  look  of  grieved  surprise, 
I  could  but  say,  "  Take  what  you  will, 
Your  plunderings  continue  still; 
Purloin  my  time,  my  heart,  my  pelf, 
Take  everything  except —  yourself! 
For  what  would  all  earth's  treasures  be 
Without  your  blessed  company?" 

And  so,  throughout  the  years  and  days, 
Content  this  young  marauder  stays, 
To  be  my  comfort  and  my  joy, 
His  name?     Why,  he's  my  little  boy! 


"  SUFFER    LITTLE    CHILDREN    TO 
COME  UNTO   ME." 

T   was   long   years    ago   that    He 

uttered 
This    message,    so    tender    and 

sweet, 

As  women  were  crowding  about  Him 

And  laying  their  babes  at  His  feet ; 

He  looked,  with  a  gentle  compassion, 

On  the  mothers  in  old  Galilee, 
While  He  comforted  them  with  this  saying, 
"  Let  the  little  ones  come  unto  me." 

From  over  the  hills  of  Judea, 

Down  through  the  long  line  of  the  years, 
That  Voice  of  ineffable  sweetness 

Still  comforts  the  mother's  sad  tears. 
O  Heart  that  has  bled  for  our  sorrows ! 

O  Voice  that  can  quiet  the  sea ! 
Come  often  to  me  with  Thy  whisper : 

"  Let  the  little  ones  come  unto  me  !  " 


n4  "  Suffer  Little  Children." 

O  mothers,  whose  children  are  lying 

Out  under  the  snow  and  the  rain, 
Let  the  beautiful  words  of  the  Master, 

Give  ease  to  your  sorrow  and  pain ! 
He  holds  their  bright  heads  on  His  bosom, 

He  gathers  them  close  to  His  knee  ; 
And  tenderly  still  He  is  saying, 

"  Let  the  little  ones  come  unto  me  !  " 


"A  LITTLE   CHILD   SHALL  LEAD 
THEM." 

HE   land    is   wondrous   fair,"    the 

angel  said. 
"  Its  sapphire  skies  are  wrought 

with  tints  of  gold  ; 
Its  jewelled    gates    admit  nor  heat  nor 

cold; 
And    all    along    the   way   that   you    shall 

tread 

A  perfume  marvellously  sweet  is  shed 
From  lilies  that  eternally  unfold." 

The  lovely  woman  raised  her  timid  face, 
And   to   the    messenger    of    death   she 

spoke : 
"  I    know    that    human   sight   can    not 

invoke 


n 6     "A  Little  Child  shall  lead  Them." 

A  vision  of  such  fair,  surpassing  grace, 
As  those  fair  mansions  in    the    heavenly 

place, 
But   life    and    I    have    never   friendship 

broke. 

"  Therefore  I  fain  would  stay,"  she  pleaded 

low. 
The     angel's     face     wore     nothing    of 

o  o 

command  ; 
He  smiling  said,    "  Behold,  unarmed   I 

stand ! 

I  left  behind  my  arrows  and  my  bow. 
I  shall  not  force  you,  lovely  one,  to  go  ; 
I    only   wait    till    you    shall    clasp    my 
hand. 

"  But  even  now  your  eyes  are   wet  with 

tears : 
Come  where  a  holy  hand  will  wipe  them 

dry! 
Oh,    be    my   bride,    my   own   beloved ! 

and  I 


"A  Little  Child  shall  lead  Them."     117 

Will  kiss   away  your  doublings  and  your 

fears, 
And  lead  you  gently  through  the  eternal 

years, 
And  prove  a  love  that  will  not  change 

or  die !  " 

The  woman  shrank  from  his  caressing  hand. 
"  But  life  hath  loyal  love  as  well,"  she 

cried ; 
"  A  trusting  heart  would  break  of  me 

denied ; 
A  faithful  foot  would  track  me  to  your 

land. 
And  at  the  gates  of  pearl  would  waiting 

stand. 

This  life  is  fair  and  sweet  to  me,"  she 
sighed. 

"  The  swaying  reed  hath  not  a  frailer  grace 
Than  human  love.     It  will  not  mourn 

you  long; 

In  Heaven  your  voice  is  needed  in  the 
song. 


1 1 8     "A  Little  Child  shall  lead  Them." 

Through  countless  ages  God  has  kept  your 

place. 
Then,   in  my   bosom   hide   your  weeping 

face, 
And   let   me    bear   you  to  the    waiting 

throng." 

"  Nay,  nay,  sweet  angel !     Spare  me  this 

alarm ; 

For  I  am  timid  of  the  lonesome  way. 

A  voice  I  love  is  begging  me  to  stay ! 

A  precious  hand  is  clinging  to  my  arm,  — 

A  hand  that   never  brought  me  pain   or 

harm  ! 

Oh,  leave  me  now,  and   come  another 
day !  " 

The  angel  drew  her  close  and  whispered 

sweet, 
"  Dear  Heart !   the  streets  are  fair  with 

children  there, 
God's  sunlight  hides   its  kisses  in  their 

hair, 


"A  Little  Child  shall  lead  Them."     119 

• 

And  everywhere  in  Heaven   a  child  you 

meet." 
The  woman  clasped  his  hand,  and  toward 

the  street 
So  bright  with    children,   smiling   went 

the  pair. 


OUR   BOBBY  WAS   PINCHING  THE 
KITTEN. 

UR  Bobby  was  pinching  the  kitten, 
And  kicking  his  primer  about, 
And  pulling  a  beetle  to  pieces, 
His  face  all  awry  in  a  pout ; 
His  mother,  who,  patient  and  loving, 

Could  coax  her  dear  Bobby  no  more, 
Now  reached  for  the  whip  on  the  mantel  — 
And  looked  at  her  boy  on  the  floor. 

But  grandma,  with  soft,  muslin  kerchief 

Pinned  over  her  warm,  loving  breast, 
Where  ten  little  heads  had  been  pillowed 

And  rocked  into  childhood's  sweet  rest, 
Looked  up  from  the  little  wool  stocking 

Just  finished  and  laid  on  her  knee, 
And  said,  "  Dear,  you  '11  ruin  his  temper, 

You  had  far  better  let  the  child  be. 


Our  Bobby  wzs  pinching  the  Kitten.    121 

"Don't  whip  him  —  his  father  before  him 

Was  punished  and  shut  in  the  dark, 
And  stood  on  one  foot  in  the  corner, 

And  disciplined  up  to  the  mark; 
We  gave  him  no  credit  for  honor, 

But  watched  him  as  spiders  watch  flies. 
I  wonder  that  it  did  n't  teach  him 

To  practise  deceit  and  tell  lies. 

"We  called  it  affection  and  duty  — 

God  knows  we  were  fond  of  the  boy  — 
But   I   guess    his    remembrance    of  child 
hood 

Is  not  quite  a  well-spring  of  joy. 
So  put  up  that  willow  whip,  daughter, 

And  try  little  Bobby  once  more. 
You  see  he  's  forgotten  his  passion, 

And  lies  half  asleep  on  the  floor." 

Then  grandmother  lifted  her  darling, 
And  patted  his  head  on  her  breast, 

And  sang  in  a  tremulous  treble, 
Till  all  Bobby's  woes  were  at  rest/ 


i  2  2    Our  Bobby  was  pinching  the  Kitten. 

And  so  the  wee  whip,  bright  and  yellow, 
Was  laid  on  the  mantel  again  — 

And  that  is  the  way  that  the  grandmas 
Spoil  nine  little  boys  out  of  ten. 


HE    KNOWS    BEST. 

F  I  could  utter  some  new  magic 

word 
To    lull    the    pain    in    one    poor 

troubled  soul  ; 

Or  when  Bethesda's  shining  pool  is  stirred 
Could    lift    some  cripple   in  and    make 
him  whole  ; 

If  I  could  set  some  bruised  and  tired  feet 
Where  they   could    henceforth   tread   a 

smoother  way, 
I    would    not    ask    a    gift    more    fair    and 

sweet, 

To  bless  me  on  this  happy  Christmas 
day. 

Ah,    foolish    heart,    be    still !      Nor    any 

more 
Distrust  the  tenderness  that  is  divine  ! 


124  He  knows  best. 

He  knows  wherever  feet  are  bruised  and 

sore, 

And  gives  them  pity,  gentler  far  than 
thine. 

Our  keenest  sorrow  may  be  sent  to  bring 
The    dearest    guest   our    life    has    ever 
known,  — 

Sweet  patience,  who  in  gathering  the  sting 
From  other's  lives  forgets  about  her  own. 

And  there  are  old  sweet  words  of  truth 
and  love, 

As  full  of  meaning  as  a  mother's  kiss, 
Which  fall  like  benedictions  from  above, 

And  never  weary  in  a  world  like  this. 

Bethesda's  pool  is  nearer  than  we  think, 

It  springs  wherever  there  are  tired  feet; 
The  gift  you  crave  lies  trembling  on  its 

brink, 

You  still  may  make  your  Christmas  day 
complete ! 


He  knows  best.  125 

And  though  it  may  be  hard  to  understand 
The  way  through  which  He  leads  your 

life  and  mine, 

May  we  not  safely  trust  the  gracious  hand 
That  brings  to  us  so  good  a  Christmas 
time? 


COMFORT. 

F  I  could  lay  my  hand  upon  the 

heart 
That   moulders    underneath   the 

•church-yard  snows, 

And  bid  the  sleeping  pulses  wake  and  start, 
And  to  the  faded  lips  restore  the  rose ; 

If  I  could  lead  the  precious  child  you  love 
With  shrinking  footsteps  to  his  earthly 
place ; 

If  I  could  bring  him  from  the  fold  above, 
The  tangled  paths  of  life  again  to  trace ; 

Say !  would  you  bid  him  lay  his  glory  by 
That    you    might    hold    him    to    your 

troubled  breast? 
And  would   your   yearning   mother-heart 

deny 

The  good  to  him  that  you  might  thus 
be  blest? 


Comfort.  127 

I  know  your  answer !     Tenderly  enough 
Has    God's   sweet   mercy   through    His 

smiting  shone. 
Young   feet   are  tender,   and  the   way   is 

rough  ; 

Be  glad  that  you   can  tread  the  thorns 
alone  ! 

It  is  not  long.     The  way  is  short  between, 
And  we  are  near  the  gates  of  pearl  and 

gold; 

And  yonder  rise  the  hills  of  living  green, 
Where  children  never  die,  nor  yet  grow 
old! 

And  when  the  storms  shall  beat,  and  rains 

shall  fall, 
And  when  you  faint  beneath  the  sun's 

fierce  ray, 

O  friend  be  glad  !   and  sing  above  it  all, 
"  My    child    is   safe  from  all  these   ills 
to-day !  " 


A   SUBPCENA. 

OISTEROUS     Wind!      Prince 

Weather's  clown ! 
You   have  raised  such  a  breeze 

in  Blossom-town, 

That  the  undersigned  bid  you  appear 
And  answer  the  charges  mentioned  here. 


Robin  is  there  quite  red  in  the  breast 
With  rage,  at  the  loss  of  a  brand-new  nest. 

Bumble-bee  draggled  from  sting  to  chin 
Crawls  from  the  pool  you  tumbled  him  in. 

Violet  looks  so  wicked  and  sly 

With  her  tattered  bonnet  blown  all  awry ! 

Hyacinth,  blue,  and  with  head  cast  down, 
Has  a  breadth  torn  out  of  her  bell-shaped 
gown. 


A  Subpoena.  129 

Butterfly  holds  up  a  crippled  wing;  - 
(How  could  you  spoil  such  a  dainty  thing?) 

Some  sweet  young  buds  that  were  coming 

out 
Fetchingly  gowned  for  their  opening  rout, 

You  whirled  away  to  a  dance  of  your  own 
With  never  a  sign  of  a  chaperone ! 

And  worst  of  all,  in  your  headlong  race 
You  drew  your  switches  across  the  face 

Of  that  pet  of  the  forest,  Anemone, 
Bravest  and  frailest  of  flowers  that  be. 

Then  haste,  rude  Jester  !   Prince  Weather's 

clown ! 

By  the  air-line  route  to  Blossom-town. 
For,  I   give  you   warning,    there 's    much 

ado 
In  the  circles  there,  on  account  of  you. 


DEPARTING  DAY. 

HILE  children  lean  their  cheeks  in 

drowsy  prayer 
Against  their  mother's  knees,  and 

all  the  air 

Is  sweet  with  vesper  bell ; 
See,  the  spent  Day  faints  on  the  sunset 

strand, 
Her    smouldering    torch    down-drooping 

from  her  hand 
In  token  of  farewell ! 

With  vague  regret  I  watch  each  ebbing 

grace : 
Come   Twilight,   gentle    nun !    before   her 

face 
Shall  cold  and  ashen  be ; 


Departing  Day.  131 

Fold  thy  gray  veil  above  her  as  she  lies, 
And  sprinkle  her  with  dews  from  thy  soft 

eyes; 
She  hath  been  kind  to  me. 


THE   END. 


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